•NRLF 


GIFT  OF 
Harry  East  Miller 


/"^^T^-^^a^y 


/cf?^ 


PATIENCE  STEONG'S  OUTINGS. 


MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY, 

lUTHOR  OF   "faith   OARTNET'S  GIBIHOOD,"  "THE   GAYWORTHYS,"  ETn..  Et« 


oJ»Ic 


XjOI^ING-,     Publislieiv, 

Cor.  Bromfield  and  Washington  Streets, 
BOSTON. 


GIFT  OF 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1868,  by 

MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY, 

lu  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Couit  for  the  District  of  Massachusetu. 


CONTENTS. 

fHAPTEB  ^^"* 

I  —Into  the  By-Gones  ....•.•••? 

II.  — Stillness  and  Stitches         . ^^ 

III. —  The  Comings-In         .       .       .       •       •       •       •       •       •     "-^ 

rv.  — The  Life  and  the  Gloky       .....  .41 

v.  — INTO  THE  Meanings         ,,.....•     54 

YI._  Into  the  Old  AND  THE  New ♦57 

VII.  — "FORZINO" "^ 

VIII.  — Into  Dark  Closets  and  Neighbor-Houses   ...     92 

IX.  — Into  the  Middles     ,,.....••    105 

X.  — Into  the  Sunshine 1'3 

XI.  — Into  the  Shops         ,.....•••    ^'-^ 

XII. —  Into  the  Years ^^5 

V 


!yi8183^ 


VI  CONTENTS. 

CBAPTEB  PAOB 

Xlir. --Into  THE  New  Testament  Part  OF  It        ,      ,       .143 

XIV.  — Into  God's  Treasure-Box 157 

XV.  —  Into  the  Fairy  Story .  108 

XVI.  — With  THE  Sunday  Stbay<9         , 180 

XVII.  — Into  Other  People's  Business 193 

XA'III.  — Into  THE  Midnight      ..,,,,.,  208 

XIX.  — Into  the  Day-Gleam  ...,,.,»  209 

XX.— Into  the  Morniko       .,.,..»,  aai 


Patience.  Strong's  Outings. 


3>»iC 


I.    •'  ■  r. 


INTO   THE    BY-GONES. 


"  Eliphalet's  folks  are  going  to  Europe." 

Mother  says  that  in  a  meek  kind  of  way,  trying  not 
to  be  too  much  set  up  about  it,  to  the  neighbors  when 
they  come  in,  and  ask,  as  the  neighbors  here  have  a 
way  of  doing,  "What  the  good  word  is  with  us?" 

It  makes  me  think,  —  that  greeting,  —  always.  It 
seems,  somehow,  as  if  it  were  a  sweet  old  fashion  that 
might  have  come  down  out  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

That  syllable  is  so  full,  — "  word  !"  That  which 
*'  was  in  the  beginning  with  God,"  and  "  without  which 
nothing  was  made  that  is  made."  What  he  has  been 
giving  out,  always,  —  down,  through  the  angels,  unto 
men,  and  into  things.  God's  meanings,  of  thought 
and  of  life  ;  his  instant  bestowal. 


S  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTIKGS. 

Looking  at  it  so,  it  is  tender  and  solemn  to  hear  the 
neighbors  ask,  "What  the  good  word  is  to-day?" 
And  to  near  mother  saj^,  with  that  kind  of  tremble  in 
h^'yoi<?e  .'th^t-she."  tries  to  straighten  into  calmness, 
^'feiiphalet*s' folks  are  going  to  Europe,"  — why,  it  is 
.afe'"i?''|,lje 'feavej  foj*^„thf^  pleasure  was  just  the  da3-'s 
word  from  God. 

I  know  mother  is  glad  and  proud  at  Eliphalet's  well- 
doing and  getting-on.  She  is  a  little  afraid  of  his 
wife,  because  she  belongs  to  a  Boston  family  of  con- 
sequence, and  is  very  elegant  in  her  manners,  and 
never  takes  them  off,  not  even  for  the  most  common 
ever3'-da3^  But  then,  as  mother  says,  she  isn't  "  stuck- 
np,"  because  she  never  got  up,  and  she  never  comes 
down.  She  was  always  just  so.  She  is  very  respect- 
ful and  kind  to  mother,  but  she  don't  like  to  be  intro- 
duced as  "  Eliphalet's  wife."  She  is  "  my  daugliter- 
in-law,  Mrs.  Strong."  Not  even  "  Mrs.  Eliphalet  " 
since  father  died,  tliough  she  was  particular  about  that 
before.  She  never  objected  nor  suggested  in  so  many 
words ;  but  we  always  find  out,  somehow,  just  what 
Gertrude  considers  proper,  and  likes  to  be  done.     She 


INTO  THE  BY-GONE S.  9 

IS  "  Gertrude "  among  us.  Mother  wouldn't  like  it 
otherwise  ;  and  mother  has  her  quiet  proprieties  too. 

Well,  Eliphalet's  folks  are  going  to  Europe.  He  and 
Gertrude,  and  the  children,  and  their  nurse,  and  their 
Aunt  Marthe.  (That  is  not  a  Yankee  shortening ; 
the  French  terminal  malvcs  all  the  difference  in  the 
prettiness.  It  is  just  so  with  other  words.  I  remem- 
ber that  I  would  not  call  my  white  waists  "gamps," 
thinking  of  bed-gowns  and  Sairey ;  but  when  I  found 
out  that  it  was  the  French  "  guimpe,"  it  gave  a  grace 
to  the  name  and  the  thing.  I  don't  know  why  we 
shouldn't  be  graceful,  even  if  we  Jiave  to  be  French.) 

Everybody  goes  to  Europe  now.  I  think  it  is  to  get 
rid  of  the  kitchens.  There  are  two  currents  in  the  At- 
lantic,—  an  upper  and  a  lower.  The  tide  comes  in 
at  our  basement  stories,  and  has  to  flow  out  again 
at  the  parlor  and  front  doors.  Perhaps  that  is  the 
reason  the  Gulf  Stream  is  changing.  Things  have 
to  equalize  and  accommodate. 

Eliphalet  came  out  last  Sunday  evening  on  horse- 
back and  took  tea,  and  told  mother  all  about  it.  They 
are  to  stay  a   year  or  more ;    travel  in  England  and 


10  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS. 

Scotland,  and  Switzerland  this  summer,  and  then  go 
to  Ital}^-  for  the  winter,  and,  in  the  spring  come  to 
Paris ;  home  when  thej^  get  read}^  How  much  that 
is,  to  do  and  to  see  !  I  wonder  if  those  little  children 
■will  take  in  an3'thing,  out  of  it  all,  to  keep. 

"  Pashie,  you  ought  to  go  too.  You  don't  get  many 
outings." 

Eliphalet  said  that  just  as  he  went  off,  when  I  was 
bidding  him  good-by,  standing  on  the  door-step,  pat- 
ting his  horse's  nose,  and  giving  him  mouthfuls  of 
fresh  clover  out  of  my  hand. 

Don't  I  have  many  outings  ? 

It  has  been  in  my  head  ever  since.  I  don't  think 
Eliphalet  knows.  It  depends  upon  how  far  3^ou  go  out 
when  3^our  gate's  ajar.  Everybody's  little  yard-room 
opens  into  all  out-doors. 

Why  it  seems  to  me  that  life  is  all  outings.  When 
you  don't  go  out  any  longer,  you  die.  There's  no 
such  thing  as  shutting  people  up. 

Mother  and  I  have  lived  here,  all  b}^  ourselves,  for 
ten  years.  Before  that,  we  had  father  to  take  care  of 
ft>r  five   years,  from  the   time  he  first  had  paralysis- 


INTO  THE  BY-GONE 8.  11 

And  before  that  it  was  Aunt  Judilh,  and  she  was  deaf, 
and  dreadfully,  —  well,  unexpected  in  her  ways.  I'm 
thirty-eight  now,  and  mother's  fifty-six.  My  dear,  lit- 
tle, 3^oung-old  mother  !  I  am  her  oldest.  So  near  her  ! 
I  am  so  glad.     We're  such  comforts  to  each  other. 

Why  I've  all  her  life  to  go  out  into,  in  the  first 
place.  Ever  since  she  used  to  tell  me  stories  about 
''  when  she  was  little,"  and  "  when  she  was  young." 

She  keeps  that  dear,  simple  w\ay  of  speaking  that 
she  learned  when  she  was  "  little,"  and  when  she  was 
*' young,"  from  her  mother  and  the  old-time  friends. 
And  yet  she  has  gone  on  with  the  years,  to  take  in 
and  enjoy  what  the  years  teach.  She  knows  new 
books,  and  new  thoughts,  and  the  light  of  to-day  on 
old  things  shines  for  her  as  truly  as  for  any  one.  We 
talk  over  the  philosophers  together,  she  and  I ;  and  we 
lo\-e  the  grand  speculations  that  take  in  the  ideas  oi 
a  humanity  hundreds  of  thousands  of  years  old,  and 
the  ciirths  buried  within  the  earth;  its  coarse,  wild, 
rudimentary,  seething,  passionate  Past,  rank  and  slimy 
and  ravenous  with  wilderness  and  reptile  and  beast, 
covered  up  and  softened  over,  and  changed ;  greened 


12  PATIENCE  STRONG'S   OUTINGS. 

and  beautified,  and  peopled  with  fairer  and  fairer  life, 
telling  us,  in  a  Word  as  big  as  the  world,  of  how  it 
shall  be  with  men's  souls  in  the  long  time  and  patience 
that  God  is  rich  in. 

She  loves  all  this,  but  she  does  not  trouble  about 
new  phrases  and  pronunciations  in  her  ever3'-da3^ 
speech.  She  says  "  our  folks  "  — (kindly  old  Anglo- 
Saxon)  —  where  Gertrude  would  say  "  our  family,  "  or 
"  my  father's  family  ;  "  and  she  speaks  of  when  she  was 
"  little,"  so  that  it  makes  you  feel  tender  toward  the 
little  child  that  she  was,  and  that  somewhere  in  her  na- 
ture she  has  not  yet  ceased  to  be.  She  "  suffers  the  lit- 
tle child  "  in  herself,  and  is  in  nowise  ashamed  of  it, 
and  by  it  she  does  always  behold  the  Father's  face.  My 
dear,  little,  j^oung-old  mother  !  That  is  the  heart-word 
1  always  have  for  her,  and  that  is  how  I  call  her. 

There  were  so  many  of  them,  sisters,  once ;  and  her 
life  takes  me  back  into  all  their  lives.  Now,  there  are 
onl}^  mother  and  Aunt  Hetty  Maria.  ^^ 

Aunt  Hetty  Maria  married  the  two  largest  and  old- 
est farms  in  Dearwood  together  ;  and  her  husband  has 
been  a  member  of  Congress,  and  she  lives  at  tlie  o:d 


INTO  TEE  BY-GONES.  13 

homestead,  and  is  a  great  deal  thought  of  and  looked 
up  to.  She  always  wears  Mack  silk  in  the  afternoons  ; 
and  when  people  come  to  see  her  they  put  on  their 
best,  in  gowns  and  in  behavior ;  and  her  tea-table  is 
always  ready  for  company,  and  set  with  real  china,  that 
you  can  see  through.  Somebody  almost  always  does 
come  in  to  tea  in  the  summer  time,  and  so  her  house 
is  "  society  "  for  Dearwood.  To  take  tea  at  Madam 
Parmenter's  is  to  take  the  best  thing  at  once,  and  the 
freedom  of  all  there  is.  The  ministers  always  go  there, 
and  the  lecturers,  and  people  that  have  any  public 
business,  and  those  who  have  friends  staying  with 
them. 

It  is  very  quiet  and  old-fashioned  and  dignified 
there  now.  It  has  got  the  air  that  only  ripens  with  a 
hundred  years'  living.  But  those  are  the  rooms  they 
were  born  and  grew  up  in,  and  were  married  out  of,  — 
those  who  were  married;  buried  out  of,  —  those  who 
died ;  and  there  was  where  the  young  folks  had  their 
tea-drinkings  and  their  courtings,  and  their  housefuls 
of  friends  at  Thanksgivings  and  holiday-times ;  and 
their  garden  and  orchard    Avalks    and  talks  when  tha 


14  PAJIE^CE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS. 

damask  roses  were  in  bloom  or  the  peaches  were  ripe ; 
aud  their  moonlight  sittings  under  the  great  trees  at 
the  wide  front  door. 

I  have  all  that  when  I  go  to  Dearwood.  It  is  all 
there  ;  and  that  is  one  of  my  outings.  Many  avenued, 
into  the  lives  that  have  been  partly  told  me,  and  that 
have  partly  told  themselves.  I  never  stand  at  the 
landing  half-way  up  the  broad,  shallow-stepped  stair- 
case, but  I  seem  to  feel  how  it  was  when  they  and  their 
visitors  went  up  to  bed  in  the  old  times  ;  when  they 
stood  there  with  sliining  candlesticks  in  their  hands, 
and  called  up  and  down  to  each  other  in  the  last  talk 
and  laugh  of  the  night,  which  is  always  the  brightest 
and  mos't  beguiling.  Nobody  ever  said  a  word  about 
that ;  but  I  know  it  by  what  they  would  call,  nowa- 
days, psychometry,  I  suppose. 

Aunt  Hetty  Maria's  picture  hangs  in  the  parlor.  It's 
a  picture  of  gown  and  great  white  ruffled  cape,  most- 
ly ;  the  features  are  of  little  account,  and  were  never 
thought  to  look  much  like  her.  But  I  like  it  for  the 
very  gown  aud  cape,  such  as  they  don't  wear  now 
even  in  their  dreams.     Such  things  grow  queer-  in  a 


INTO  THE  BY-GONE S.  15 

portrait  for  a  while,  and  then  thev  grow  aiicieht  and 
graphic.  Then  they  tell  stories,  and  are  as  much  as  a 
face.     They  become  the  things  that  portray. 

It  makes  me  think  of  warm,  pleasant  weather,  and 
company  coming,  that  picture,  with  the  low-necked 
silk  gown,  and  the  wide,  clear,  fresh  muslin  cape,  with 
the  ruffles  standing  off  at  the  shoulders,  and  the  hair 
done  up  in  high,  smooth  bows.  It  wouldn't  have  been 
a  di'ess  to  play  croquet,  or  Aunt  Sall3^  or  ship-coil  in  ; 
but  to  talk,  and  walk,  and  gather  roses,  and  sit  in 
state  in  the  best  parlor  for  a  hand-round  tea  ;  and  so, 
when  I  stand  and  look  at  it,  it  takes  me  right  back  to 
itself  and  into  its  da}^ 

Wh}',  there  are  plenty  of  ways  to  get  out !  Away 
out  into  the  long-lived  years,  with  people  one  never 
saw  or  knew.  An  old  house,  an  old  picture,  a  word 
in  a  book  can  do  it.  One  needn't  necessaril}^  cross 
the  water.  If  one  does,  it  is  to  get  precisely'  similar 
things.  More  of  them,  perhaps,  and  on  a  grander 
scale  ;  but  I  think  these  help  me  to  know  v/hat  those 
would  be.  And  if  you  really  do  know  what  a  thing 
KOuld  be,  I  think  you  hardly  ever  get  it.     Because  it  is 


IG  FATIENCE  STIiOXG'S  OUTINGS. 

the  meanings  of  life,  and  not  so  much  living  itself, 
that  God  has  for  us  here. 

I  do  not  believe  I  shall  ever  go  to  Europe. 

A  journe}^  isn't  always  an  "  outing,"  after  all.  Peo- 
ple go  journeys  and  never  go  out  the  least  bit.  They 
just  pack  themselves  up,  and  first  thej^  are  here,  and 
then  they  are  there  ;  and  that  is  all  the  difference,  esi>ec- 
ially  in  these  times  of  railroads,  and  day  and  night 
travel.  Why,  Europe  was  only  a  bigger  Washington 
Street  to  Effie  Butler,  Gertrude's  cousin.  She  went 
away  in  four  trunks,  and  she  came  back  in  eight,  that 
was  all.  Shops  and  dress-makers  in  Paris,  and  jewel- 
lers in  Rome  and  Florence.  To  what  she  had,  more 
was  given.     But  she  never  went  out. 

Perhaps  it  is  only  what  goes  out  and  stays  out,  that 
counts  in  our  living.  That  is  God's  going  out.  A 
reaching  which  is  growing,  and  a  giving  which  shares 
and  multiplies  life.  That  was  Christ's  out-going. 
''  Virtue  went  out  of  him."  Blessing  and  help,  of  a 
kind  that  "  goeth  not  out  but  by  prayer  and  fasting." 
He  himself"  came  out  from  God  "  and  into  tlie  world. 

It   tells    everything,    that   little    Saxon    sylhible   of 


IXTO  THE  BY-GONES.  17 

force:  how  God  gave  forth  his  creation >,  how  the 
suns  flung  off  their  planets  into  the  spaces  ;  what 
human  living  really  means,  and  the  circles  that  lives 
make  in  time. 

I  should  like  to  think  up,  thoroughly,  what  my 
"  outings  "  have  been,  and  what  they  might  be. 

People  keep  diaries  of  their  travels  :  I  wonder  what 
a  diary  of  these  would  be  ? 


18  PATIENCE  STBONij^'iS  OUTINGS. 


II. 

STILLNESS   AND    STITCHES. 

Sit  still,  and  everything  will  come  round  to  you. 
It  wouldn't  be  quite  safe  to  carry  that  into  all  sorts  of 
things ;  but  it  is  very  true  of  a  still  life.  It  is  true 
and  comfortable,  also,  of  many  a  quiet  pause  in  the 
midst  of  perplexity.  Did  you  ever  lose  a  companion 
in  a  crowded  street,  or  miss  an  appointment  at  some 
shop  or  corner?  And  didn't  you  find  out  that  the  best 
thing  to  be  done,  perhaps,  was  to  stand  still  till  your 
friend,  in  the  rush  hither  and  thither  in  which  you  had 
both  been  striving  to  meet,  came  by?  Only,  indeed, 
if  both  had  been  equally  wise  you  might  possibly  have 
botl^  stood  fast  until  to-day.  But  when  you  canH 
move,  it  is  a  contenting  theory,  and  it  works  welL 

Fashions  come  round,  even  to  red  hair.  Put  awa^^ 
any  old  thing,  and,  if  the  moths  don't  eat  it  up,  it  will 
turn   to   purpose   some   day.     ''  Lay  it  by  for  seven 


.  STILLNESS  AND  STITCHES.  19 

years,  and  then  turn  it  and  lay  jt  by  for  seven  more," 
and,  if  you  don't  forget  you  ever  had  it,  there'll  be  a 
■vyant  for  it.  I'd  rather  use  up  as  I  go  along,  for  my- 
self or  somebody  else ;  but  the  rule  stands  good 
against  burning  up  or  throwing  away. 

Sometimes  I  think  that  still  people,  like  us,  get 
most.  The  world  drifts  on,  and  round  and  round,  and 
something  is  always  touching  at  one's  corner,  giving 
one  a  glimpse,  and  in  the  stillness  one  can  take  in  a 
good  deal  that  the  people  in  the  hurry  can't  stop  to 
think  of.  • 

Now  Eliphalet  and  Gertrude  are  going  to  Europe. 
And  they  are  full  of  plans  and  talk ;  and  they  come 
out  here  with  them.  Eliphalet  brings  his  guide-books 
and  gets  out  the  big  maps,  and  tells  us  all  the  here  and 
the  there  of  it,  and  the  what  and  the  why ;  and  then 
haven't  we  got  it  all,  mother  and  I,  —  without  the 
trunks,  and  the  dress-makers,  and  the  sewing  and  the 
packing,  and  the  sea-sickness  and  the  crowd,  and  the 
care  about  money,  and  the  care  about  one's  self,  —  the 
troublesome  self  that  never  seems  to  be  in  the  way 
when  it's  where  it  belongs,  but  that,  the  minute  you  set 


20  FATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

off  an3^where,  you've  got  always  to  take  with  3^011  and 
to  tend?  You  see,  when  3'ou  travel,  3'ou  must  keep 
taking  out  and  putting  awa3^  —  3^our  clothes  and  3'our 
body  —  all  the  time  ;  in  and  out  of  boxes  —  in  and  out 
of  boats  and  cars  and  hotels.  If  3'our  sight  and  your 
thought  could  go,  without  all  this  !* 

They  do  when  3'our  friends  travel  for  you.  When 
3^ou've  found  out  exactly  what  there  is  to  go  for,  as 
3^ou  only  do  find  out  when  somebody  is  really  going  — 
wh3^,  then  3^ou've  almost  been.  And  when  the  letters 
conae  back,  3'Ou're  as  good  as  there. 

Not  but  what  the  doing  does  deepen  it  a/l.  It  is 
like  putting  any  other  dream  into  action.  You  can 
dream  in  a  minute  ;  but  it  takes  da3^s  and  3'ears  to  live 
3^our  dream  out ;  and  if  3^ou  can  live  it,  3^ou  haven't 
made  it  3^our  own  until  3'ou  do.  It  is  only  that  the 
minutes  are  given  to  them  who  are  forbidden  the  days 
and  the  years  ;  and  in  the  Lord's  giving  he  can  make 
the  da3^s  as  the  3"ears,  and  the  minutes  as  the  days. 
And  so  things  come  b3'',  and  3^ou  get  j^our  share,  and 
the  bit  is  multiplied.  When  the  people  wc/€  iiimgry, 
He  made  them  sit  down  quietly  on  the  gree*^  ^rass. 


STILLNESS  AAD  STITCHES.  21 

(There  is  always  "  iiiiich  glass  "  —  much  possible  green 
content  —  in  every  place.)  And  He  gaA^e  to  the  few, 
and  the  few  to  the  many ;  and  there  was  enough  for 
all. 

I  think,  after  the  studying  and  planning  are  done 
w^hich  are  the  first  and  the  essence  of  the  having,  the 
next  best  must  be  the  beticeen-times.  Quiet  hours 
on  the  ocean,  w^hen  jon  know  you  are  on  your  way ; 
and  over  and  over,  ripening  and  gladdening  in  your 
mind,  come  the  plans  and  the  visions,  and  the  feeling 
of  what  is  going  to  be :  the  stretches  of  railway  be- 
tween one  delight  and  the  next ;  the  time  you  Jiave 
•to  take  to  get  the  body  along,  when  what  has  been 
grows  mellow  in  the  mind,  enriching  and  sweetening 
it ;  and  what  is  coming  comes  beforehand,  with  a  long, 
beautiful  slant,  as  the  dayshine  does  over  the  hills. 
Yes,  it  is  all  best.  And  I  know  I  should  be  glad  to 
go,  and  live  it  in.  But  I  can  stay  and  be  glad,  too,  for 
the  much  of  it  that  I  can  get  without  the  going,  and 
that  this  quiet  staying  works  with,  also,  like  those 
between-times  of  the  going.  Think  it  over  as  J  will, 
it  somehow  comes  out  even. 


22  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

I  believe  I  like  waiting  times.  Perhaps  it  is  because 
I  have  got  used  to  waiting.  But  I  like  the  days  be- 
tween the  knowing  and  the  having  of  a  pleasure.  It 
is  with  you  all  the  while.  I  like  to  expect  a  letter. 
When  it  has  come,  there  is  the  end  of  it.  I  like  the 
time  when  the  carpet  is  swept,  and  the  fire  is  bright,  or 
the  windows  open  to  the  sunshine,  and  the  flowers  are 
in  the  vases,  and  the  fresh  covers  on,  and  the  cake- 
basket  ready  in  the  closet,  and  the  friend  expected 
presently.  If  she  came  right  in,  in  a  hurry,  as  soon 
as  the  last  thing  was  done,  it  would  take  away  half 
the  pleasantness.  And  in  this  I  feel  faintly  as  if  it 
were  not  all ;  as  if  there  might  be  a  meaning  of  some- 
thing deeper  and  farther  on.  I  wonder  if  I  could  not 
wait  with  some  such  peace  as  this,  if  I  were  old,  or 
had  a  long  and  mortal  sickness,  or  were  left  alone  — 
awhile  ?  Letting  the  sunlight  of  heaven  come  slanting 
in,  slowly,  long  beforehand,  when  the  day  was  sure  to 
be  ?  Making  a  sweet  pause  of  patience,  rather  than  a 
craving  and  a  pain,  of  the  taking  away  that  was  for 
such  a  giving  again?  I  do  not  know  ;  but  I  think  it  \n 
wtiat  this  pleasantness  of  waiting  means. 


STILLNESS  AND  STITCHES.  23 

I  y^as  very  wise,  and  strong,  and  contented,  —  wasn't 
I?  Where  is  it  all  gone,  and  why  couldn't  I  stay  just 
as  quietly  now  ? 

Oh,  but  it's  very  different  now ! 

Eliphalet  has  asked  me  — truly  and  in  earnest  —  to 
go  to  Europe  with  them ! 

To  put  myself  away,  and  take  myself  out  — yes, 
well,  I  think  I  can ! 

To  have  it  all,  —  to  mean  it  reall}^  when  we  talk,  — 
to  have  the  rest  and  the  hope  on  the  sea,  and  the  great, 
beautiful,  actual  things  when  we  come  to  them,  and 
the  going  back  in  the  pauses  and  the  stillness  ;  and  the 
waiting  for  more  ;  to  keep  gathering  in  and  laying  T)y, 
and  to  come  home  again  rich  for  all  the  rest  of  the  years  ! 

But  then,  my  darling  little  mother  ! 

She  says,  "Go,  dearie;"  and  she  will  stay  wita 
Aunt  Hetty  Maria ;  she  never  will  have  a  chance 
again,  maj^be.     And  the  home  here  can  be  shut  up. 

She  means  I  never  may  have  the  chance  again.  But, 
then,  couldn't  I  take  it  partly  for  her  ?  Couldn't  I  keep 
giving  it  to  her  as  I  went  along,  and  bring  it  all  back 


24  PATIENCE  STRONCrS  OUTINGS. 

to  be  glad  over  together?  Nobody  else  would  write  to 
her  as  I  would  —  every  little  bit.  Why,  I  should  be 
like  Harriet  Byron,  who  alwa3^s  puzzled  me  so,  how 
she  ever  managed  to  have  the  things  happen  when  she 
was  doing  such  monstrous  days'  works  to  write  them 
all  down. 

If  I  go,  —  and  I  shall  keep  sa3dng  "if"  till  I'm  on 
the  deck  of  the  steamer,  for  I  can't  look  it  quite 
straight  in  the  face  that  I'm  going  away  from  mother 
so  long,  or  bear  to  put  it  certain  in  words,  —  if  I  go,  I 
must  be  ready  by  the  fifteenth.  What  is  to  become  of 
my  waiting-time  ?  Am  I  to  rush  right  into  this  great 
pleasure  without  a  breath,  when  I  like  so  to  stop  and 
look  even  at  a  little  one  ?  We  shall  see.  I'll  work 
hard  but  we  will  have  a  quiet  Sunday  and  Monday 
before  I  go  to  New  York  on  Tuesday. 

We  shall  start  together,  mother  and  I,  —  that's  a 
comfort.  I  couldn't  leave  her  behind,  standing  alone 
on  the  porch.  And  when  she  gets  out  of  the  cars  at 
Dearwood,  there  won't  be  any  time,  as  Eliphalet  says, 
for  a  fuss.  Sometimes  a  hurrj^  is  the  best  thing.  I 
am  glad  there  are  quiets  and  hurries.     There  alwa3^s 


STILLNESS  AND  STITCHES.  25 

are  two  things.  The  world  is  all  opposites  ;  and  one 
thing  couldn't  be  without  the  other.  You  can't  rest 
until  you're  tired ;  you  can't  be  glad  if  you've  never 
been  sorry.  We  shall  find  it  all  out  by-and-by ;  and 
how  He  sees  that  everything  is  good. 

We  haven't  any  sewing-machine  to  hurry  with.  We 
never  wanted  one.  I  think  sewing-machines  are  to 
needle-work  just  what  railroads  are  to  travelling,  and 
t^^  3g''afL,hs  to  business.  You  have  to  do  ten  times  as 
much  of  it,  and  you  can't  stop  to  enjoy  it.  It  seems 
tp  me  that  the  way  the  world  grows  is  very  much  like 
the  game  of  "  bezique  "  the}^  used  to  play  at  Gertrude's. 
It  sounds  bigger  to  count  by  hundreds  and  thousands 
than  by  tens  ;  but  it  is  precisely  the  same  thing,  after 
all,  as  to  the  game,  and  a  great  deal  more  bother.  In 
fact,  when  we  once  began  to  change  our  proportions, 
we  spoiled  the  whole  thing  and  got  tired  of  it  alto- 
gether. 

If  people  would  only  dress  themselves  and  furnish 
their  houses  as  simply  as  they  did  before,  the  machines 
would  have  cleared  up  such  a  blessed  space  in  life  I 
But  they  went  right  to  inventing  and  multiplying  tucks 


26  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

and  bands  and  rufflings  and  flouncings,  and  things  to 
put  them  on  to,  till  the  only  difference  is  that  they  are 
whizzed  to  death  with  work,  instead  of  quietly  and 
peaceably  tired  out. 

No ;  mother  and  I  have  each  her  window,  —  hers 
looks  out  into  a  larch  and  mine  into  a  chestnut ;  her 
tree  is  tender  first  with  new  green  fringe  and  bright 
with  young,  red,  budding  cones  ;  and  mine  grows  beau- 
tiful later  with  its  white,  feathery  spires ;  and  we 
have  each  a  round,  old-fashioned  lightstand,  with  a 
work-basket,  and  a  sewing-bird  screwed  on ;  and  the 
real  birds  flutter  up  the  green  stairways  of  the 
branches,  and  sit  singing  on  the  rocking  tips  of  the 
twigs ;  and  we  are  still  and  happy,  and  have  our 
brains  to  ourselves,  and  rest  all  our  bodies  except  our 
fingers,  instead  of  keeping  head  and  hands  and  feet 
and  nerves  all  flying,  as  the  children  do  in  "My 
mother  sends  me  to  j^ou,  sir."  We  have  our  thoughts, 
and  our  talk,  and  we  feel  the  threads  go  in  and  out, 
and  the  satisfaction  of  every  stitch  as  we  make  it. 
They  are  telegraph  lines  for  us  women,  —  these 
<"hreads  — reaching  far  away  into  times  past  and  times 


STILLNESS  AND  STITCHES.  27 

to  come,  and  things  unseen.  We  put  our  lives  to- 
gether, bit  by  bit,  at  other  whiles,  like  patch-work,  and 
then  we  sit  down  and  quilt  it  in.  I  think  Eve  sewed 
the  fig-leaves  together  for  the  sewing's  sake,  and  for 
the  beauty  of  the  green  tapestry- work,  before  ever  the 
devil  put  it  into  her  head  about  the  aprons.  Men  can't 
do  anything  but  smoke,  —  or  whittle. 

Mother's  life  and  mine  are  quilted  all  together  so. 
I  don't  think  anything  ever  could  separate  us  now,  or 
that  one  of  us  could  have  a  thing  and  the  other  not. 
Mother's  going  to  Europe  as  much  as  I  am. 

"  I  can't  help  lotting  on  it  all  the  time,"  she  says, 
out  of  her  window,  over  her  lapful  of  nightgown. 

"  And  the  lotting  is  the  whole  of  it,"  I  answer  back, 
over  mine. 

That's  what  the  Yankee  word  comes  from.  Things 
are  only  what  we  " allot"  to  them.  And  the  heart  and 
soul  do  that ;  and  it  takes  a  very  little  thread  dropped 
into  the  wonderful  life  solution,  to  gather  in  heaps  the 
lovely,  shining  crystals,  each  to  its  own.  And  the 
stiller  3'OU  keep,  the  more  crystals  you  get.  Which  is 
exactly  what  I  began  with. 


28  PATIENCE   STB  ON  a' S  OUTINGS, 


III. 


THE   COMINGS-IN. 


I  don't  know  which  are  the  most,  or  the  best,  —  the 
outings  or  the  in-tings.  There,  —  I  thought  before  I 
vrote  it  down,  that  I  had  made  a  word !  And  after 
all,  I've  only  come  round  to  an  old  meaning.  "  Iri't " 
—  "  hint "  —  "  inting,"  —  "  inkling,"  —  they  are  all  the 
same,  and  mean  just  this  very  thing.  That  which 
comes  in  to  us,  —  faintly,  shadowly,  breathly, — we 
can't  tell  how. 

I'll  look  it  out  in  "Worcester.  "  Etymology  uncer- 
tain." Well,  I've  found  it  out  then.  Please  put 
Patience  Strong  as  an  authority  in  the  next  diction- 
ary. 

When  I  was  a  little  girl,  this  house  had  a  piece  built 
on  to  it.  All  one  summer  there  was  an  unfinished 
room,  under  the  piazza,  just  boarded  in ;  and  once, 
when  two  or  three  uncles  and  aunts  were  here  with 


THE  COMINGS-m.  29 

their  children,  and  every  place  was  full,  I  slept  there. 
In  the  clear,  shiny  mornings,  when  I  woke  up,  there 
was  a  little  beam  of  light  that  came  from  the  east,  all 
the  way  from  the  great  sun,  straight  down  upon  the 
world,  striking  nothing  until  it  touched  an  old  elm-tree 
in  our  yard,  and  then  streamed  through  a  little  knot- 
hole into  my  chamber.     There  it  made  a  picture  on  the 
opposite  wall, — -a  soft  gray  picture  of  moving  leaves 
and  stems ;  only  a  bit  of  a  branch,  magnified,  I  sup- 
pose, according  to  the  law  of  optics  for  things  given 
through  little  glory-holes  into  camera-obscuras,  —  but 
bringing  the  whole  tree  in  to  me,  for  all  that ;  the  tree, 
and  the  wind   also  in  its   boughs,  and   the  freshness 
of  the  growing,  moving  morning-time.     All  this  came 
in-to   me  with  a  shadow — a  libit;  —  to  me,  shut  up 
there,  with  only  a  little  knot-hole  as  big  as  my  finger 
for  a  window  !     And  that  is  the  way  things  do  come ; 
as  much  as  to  say,  like  the  old  song,  —  "If  you  want 
any  more,  can't  you  sing  it  yourself  ?  " 

Things  come  back  so ;  books,  for  instance ;  stories 
I  have  read,  and  feelings  they  have  given  me.  Some- 
times it  isn't  any  one  in  particular,  but  a  sudden  sense 


30  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

of  them  in  general ;    a  kind  of  -^olian  stir  of  strings 
in  me  that  have  been  touched  with  pleasantness. 

Somebody  showed  me  a  spectroscope  the  other  day. 
I  went  to  see  a  friend  who  has  the  wJiole  of  most 
things ;  and  yet  she,  too,  must  come  to  the  border, 
beyond  which  she  has  to  live  by  hints ;  she  showed 
me,  and  told  me  about  it:  how  the  colors  were  all 
measured  off  with  wonderful  lines,  and  each  kind  of 
light  produced  its  own,  — just  so  much  in  breadth,  and 
in  just  such  place  in  the  prism ;  how  the  light  of  the 
sun  divided  itself,  and  the  light  of  Sirius  showed  its 
kindred  with  ours ;  how  they  found  out  by  fusing 
metals,  and  seeing  where  their  colors  ranged  them- 
selves, just  what  must  be  also  in  the  blaze  of  the  far- 
off  stars,  and  that  their  glory  and  our  own  is  all  of 
one.  She  burned  a  little  salt  in  a  candle,  and  straight 
and  swift  leaped  up  in  the  prism  along  the  yellow,  in 
Sodium's  line,  a  vivid  thread,  thrilled  instantly  to  its 
own  place:  the  law  of  all  reception,  of  all  illumina- 
tion, of  all  life. 

Well,  it  comes  so  in  sudden   streaks  and  flashes, 
«ach  in  its  own  home-place  in  the  heart,  the  memory 


THE  COMINGS-m,  31 

of  what  one  has  gathered,  and  entered  into  and  been. 
Through  books,  or  places,  or  people,  or  thoughts.  I 
never  know  why  ;  but  in  the  midst  of  work  this  breath 
comes  over  me,  and  in  it  is  a  spirit-fragrance  that 
touches  sense ;  a  momentary  realizing  of  all  remem- 
brances, imaginings,  and  hopes,  showing  how  true  thcj 
are,  and  how,  once  had,  they  are  never  to  be  lost  out, 
or,  once  looked  for,  they  are  sure  to  be. 

That  is  why  I  like  to  live  on  in  this  dear  old  home, 
and  why  I  should  hate  to  have  even  the  carpets  wear 
wholly  out  and  be  replaced  all  together ;  it  is  why  a 
fire,  I  think,  is  such  a  terrible  thing ;  it  is  why  I  can 
never  understand  how  people  can  like  to  send  off  to 
auctions,  and  new-furnish  their  homes.  Why,  when 
thej^  do  that,  they  haven't  any  homes.  I  like  to  have 
things  kept  and  cared  for,  and  turned,  and  made  to 
last ;  and,  when  they  must  go,  to  have  the  complexion 
and  expression  of  them  renewed  in  something  as  nearly 
like  as  possible.  1  should  not  like  to  have  our  sitting- 
room  annihilated  and  supplanted  by  the  carpets  and 
wall  paper  being  changed  to  as  startling  a  difference  as 
could  be,  any  more  than  I  should  like  next  spring  to 


32  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

have  all  the  trees  leave  out  in  roj-al  purple,  or  the  sky 
turn  green.  God  keeps  the  home-feeling  in  his  earth 
for  us ;  I  believe  he  will  keep  it,  too,  in  his  heaven. 
Tlmigs  must  wear  out  and  change  ;  but  the  spirit  and 
the  sense  may  last.  "  They  shall  pass  away  ;  but  thy 
word  shall  not  pass  away." 

The  sitting-room  and  parlor  carpet  were  both  alike 
once.  Then  the  sitting-room  carpet  wore  out,  and  the 
parlor  one  was  put  in  the  place  of  it ;  and  one  that 
wouldn't  look  badly  with  it  was  got  for  the  parlor ; 
and  so  by  little  and  little  we  shaded  off  our  wonted- 
ness  from  one  into  the  other ;  and  now  I  suppose  we 
might  take  away  the  first  and  replace  it  with  this  last 
again,  and  have  still  another  new  one,  not  too  differ- 
ent, without  the  feeling  of  a  break.  But,  now  there 
are  only  two  of  us,  they  will  last  as  they  are,  I  think, 
all  our  lives.  I  hope  they  will.  But  then  I  am  an  old 
maid. 

I  like  that  sitting-room  carpet  so  much !  With  its 
great,  old-fashioned  ovals  of  shaded  browns,  and  its 
intermediate  lesser  figures  filling  up  with  curviug  lines 
and  leaves  just  touched  with  deep  relief  of  green,  — ■ 


TEE  COMINGS-m.  53 

good,  fast,  old  colors  that  stand  wear  and  sunsLine, 
and  that  I  remember  so  many  sunshiny  days  by ! 

I  remember  a  winter  morning,  when  grandma  was 
alive,  and  lived  with  us,  when  I  was  a  girl  of  twelve, 
.and  sat  in  the  south  window  reading  Irving,  out  of  a 
great  volume  of  all  his  works,  that  father  had  bought 
at  a  sale,  —  delighting  in  Bracebridge  Hall,  and  hardly 
knowing  which  was  most  enchanting  and  to  be  cov- 
eted, the  "  fair  Julia's  "  life  in  her  English  home,  or 
that  of  the  beautiful  Moorish  princesses  in  the  Alham- 
bra.  I  remember  the  sun  pouring  broad  and  full 
across  my  lap  and  the  page,  and  lying  level  along  the 
greens  and  browns  away  out  into  the  open  parlor  door, 
and  grandma  saying,  "The  sun  lays  straight,  —  it's 
twelve  o'clock."  All  the  cosiness  of  my  book,  and  her 
quiet  companionship,  and  her  knitting-work,  —  she 
was  footing  socks  for  father,  —  and  the  bright  day  ; 
even  the  yellow  gingerbread  mother  gave  me  for  my 
luncheon,  —  come  back  to  me,  bringing  after  them  the 
joy  and  freedom  and  fancy  of  twelve  years  old,  when 
life  was  only  a  Sketch  Book,  as  often  as  the  "  sun  lays 

straight "  along  the  seams.     And  then  I  look  forward 
3 


34  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

as  well  as  back,  —  for  the  soul  is  the  "  living  thing  full 
of  eyes  before  and  behind,"  —  and  think  of  the  time 
that  is  to  come,  the  time  that  the  dear,  kind,  simple 
grandmother  has  entered  into,  when  there  shall  be  no 
more  measuring  of  the  noonday  or  of  the  going  down,, 
because  there  shall  be  no  more  need  of  the  sun  itself, 
but  we  shall  dwell  in  the  midst  of  the  unmeasured  and 
shadowless  light  of  God. 

I  do  not  suppose  anybody  could  have  had  just  such 
a  home  as  this,  anywhere  else. 

In  the  first  place,  there  is  the  old,  old  garden.  It 
seems  as  if  it  must  have  always  been  old.  There  are 
flowers  there  that  don't  grow  in  new  gardens  ;  at  least, 
not  in  the  same  way  ;  and  that  now  jow  couldn't  hinder 
growing  if  you  would.  There  is  a  great  round  patch 
of  ladies'  delights  under  an  oak  tree,  that  looks  as  if 
it  had  been  carpeted ;  and  they  come  up  there  as  if 
they  were  only  wild  violets,  and  open  their  golden 
and  purple  eyes,  and  make  little  short-stemmed  nods 
in  the  wind  till  they  seem  like  a  cloud  of  butterflies 
just  lighting  and  settling,  or  lifting  themselves  to  fly 
away.     And  down  in  the  deep  shade  by  the  brook,  is 


THE  COMINGS-m.  35 

a  bed  of  lilies  of  the  valle}^,  and  up  under  the  Tvall  bj^ 
the  gate  is  another  ;  and  one  has  the  cool  and  the  dark, 
and  the  other  has  the  early  spring  sunshine ;  and  so 
we  have  the  dear  little  bells,  early  and  late,  half  the 
summer  through.  Then  the  narcissusses  have  spread 
and  spread,  and  so  have  the  splendid  white  July  lilies  ; 
so  that  the  air  is  heavy  with  perfume  in  the  time  of 
each,  from  the  first  gladness  of  opened  doors  and 
windows  and  summer  balminess,  to  the  long,  hot  da^^s 
when  the  sweet  smell  comes  in  on  lazy  pug's  of  south 
wind  through  the  green  shadow  of  shut  blinds. 

And  the  broad  old  back  piazza  looks  down  on  it  all, 
where  the  ground  slopes  away  in  irregular  beds  of 
bloom  that  have  shaped  themselves  by  their  growth 
and  the  culture  they  got  just  as  they  asked  for  it,  —  in 
wide  turf  spaces  between,  —  under  lilacs,  snowballs, 
and  seringas,  and  horse-chestnuts  and  maples,  —  till 
the  brown  water  of  the  brook  runs  its  sentinel  line 
between  it  and  the  meadow-mowing  beyond. 

Down  on  one  side,  from  the  west  door-yard,  beside 
the  garden  wall,  across  the  brook  and  up  again  into 
the  beautiful  oak  pasture  where  it  loses  itself,  goes  the 


36  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

green  hme,  by  which  the  cows  have  been  turned  out  to 
their  grass  and  come  home  again,  morning  and  night, 
ever  since  my  grandfather's  father  built  the  place. 

Along  the  sides  you  find  the  first  wild  violets  and 
the  little  mitchella,  and  in  one  place  the  wild  hone}^- 
suckle,  spicy  with  odor ;  and  down  at  the  brook  the 
fair,  slight  wind-flowers  growing  in  thousands,  making 
you  think  always  of  a  low  breeze  running  along  the 
ground  and  lifting  up  their  delicate  faces ;  and  up  in 
the  pasture  the  lesser  Solomon's  seal,  that  I  go  and 
bring  home  by  apronfuls  in  the  late  May  and  early 
June ;  and  in  the  August  ripening  there  are  black- 
berries and  thimbleberries  under  the  walls  everywhere ; 
and  in  October  jovl  can  go  down  over  the  pasture 
ledge  into  the  hollows  against  the  wood,  and  find  the 
wild  grapes,  purple  and  white,  lying  among  their  great, 
cool  leaves  against  the  hot  faces  of  the  sun-gathering 
rocks. 

Inside  the  house  it  is  just — our  house.  Full  of  us 
all ;  filled  up  once  and  never  to  be  emptied  of  the 
presences  that  have  made  it  home.  All  the  rooms 
open  into  each  other,  up  stairs  and  down ;   you  can 


THE  COMINGS-m.  37 

always  shut  and  bolt  a  door  if  you  like,  but  it  is  nice 
that  they  can  all  be  set  wide.  The  west  door  opens 
from  the  porch  into  a  square  side  passage,  up  through 
which  at  the  back  twists  a  little  staircase  which  you 
turn  into  at  the  bottom,  and  turn  right  out  of  it  again, 
because  you  can't  help  yourself,  at  the'  top  ;  and  before 
you  think  of  going  up,  you  are  up.  "  Similarly,"  as 
Dickens  says,  —  down.  A  real  cute  little  staircase 
that  carries  out  the  sentiment  of  the  house,  joining 
parlors  and  chambers  like  a  brace,  or  like  the  thing 
proof-readers  put  for  a  sign  of  a  transposal.  If  you 
can't  have  a  hall  like  a  saloon,  and  a  staircase  wide 
enough  for  four  abreast,  then  have  this,  —  a  little  bit 
of  a  turn-round  that  lands  you  somewhere  else  before 
you  know  it,  and  that  don't  pretend  to  be  anything 
of  itself.  I  hate  a  middle-sized  entry-way,  that  is 
neither  out  doors  nor  in,  with  two  chairs  and  a  hat- 
tree. 

On  the  right  hand  is  the  kitchen  ;  and  if  the  door  is 
open,  no  matter  ;  for  you'll  only  see  a  white- scrubbed 
floor,  and  a  still  whiter  table,  and  some  bright  tins, 
and  a  blazing  copper  pump  and  boiler,  and  a  velvet- 


38  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINaS. 

black  stove  with  a  square  of  fresh-washed  oilcloth 
around  it ;  and  perhaps  get  a  whiff  of  something  nice 
baking  in  the  oven. 

On  the  left  is  the  little  parlor,  —  the  winter  room  , 
and  out  of  that  opens  the  summer  parlor,  larger,  and 
lying  at  the  north-east  corner  of  the  house.  A  door 
leads  from  this  into  the  front  j^ard,  on  to  the  grass 
under  the  mulberry-trees ;  and  another  opposite  into 
the  sitting-room,  larger  than  either  and  connecting 
with  both;  and  from  that  you  go  out  on  the  broad 
back  piazza,  or  into  the  kitchen,  and  so  you  have 
finished  the  round. 

Upstairs  just  the  same ;  only  there  is  a  little  back 
stairway  nipped  out  of  a  corner,  so  that  you're  not 
obliged  to  go  through  other  rooms  to  get  down  from 
either.  The  great  chimney-stack  is  right  in  the  mid- 
dle, and  the  sun  seems  to  be  on  all  sides  of  the  house 
at  once,  because  of  the  doors  through  and  through, 
that  all  come  opposite  to  windows,  and,  if  he  looks 
into  one  room,  invite  him  right  across  into  another. 
Just  so  with  the  breeze  in  summer  time  ;  you  can  get 
it  anywhere. 


THE  COMINGS-m,  39 

And  this  is  onl}  the  shell ;  there  is  all  the  filling  up. 
All  the  dear  old  furniture,  and  curtains,  and  bed- 
quilts, —  of  everybody's  dresses,  —  and  book-shelves 
and  books,  and  pictures  and  ornaments,  that  are  an 
inner  shell ;  and  the  filling  up  of  these,  that  is  the 
life ;  that  reaches  away  in  and  away  out,  backward 
and  forward ;  that  the  use  and  the  handling  of  these 
things,  —  even  the  having  them  before  one's  eyes,  in 
moods  of  pleasantness  or  pain,  of  thought  or  listen- 
ing, —  in  times  of  search  and  effort,  of  in-coming  and 
answering,  of  love  and  praj^er  and  faith  and  doing, 
has  made  to  repeat  itself  and  link  itself  all  through 
with  such  chains  of  reminder  and  association,  that  just 
the  same  life  could  never  have  been  or  grown  else- 
where, and  can  never  truly  feed  itself  so  well  as  here. 

I  begin  to  thinic  I  am  like  the  old  king  of  Granada ; 
fixed  in  one  spot,  but  with  windows  opening  out  every 
way  ;  and  a  magical  board  on  which  is  repeated  for  me 
the  moving  of  all  life  that  is  beyond  me  and  out  of 
sight ;  that  I  may  watch,  and  know,  and  even  truly 
handle  and  rule  it  all,  getting  my  own  out  of  it  as  if  I 
were  among  it. 


40  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS, 

For  we  are  back  again  —  mother  and  I;  and  oar 
trunks  are  unpacked  ;  and  this  is  why  I  have  been  all 
over  the  old  home,  outside  and  in,  as  people  do  who 
have  been  away  so  long. 

For  I  shall  never  get  over  the  feeling  that  I  liava 
been  to  Europe,  though  Eliphalet's  folks  went  without 
me,  after  all.  That  was  what  I  meant  to  have  said  at 
the  beginning,  only  I  got  so  taken  up. 

I  met  with  an  accident,  the  Saturday  before  we  were 
to  sail.  I  fell  down  the  little  front  staircase,  out  of 
the  best  chamber  door  into  the  kitchen,  and  broke  one 
of  the  bones  of  my  left  leg  just  above  the  ankle. 

I  had  to  take  to  my  old  outings  again ;  the  new  ones 
were  not  to  be,  just  yet. 

''  If  I  want  any  more,  I  must  sing  it  myself."    . 

Or,  it  will  be  sung  to  me,  if  I  listen. 


THE  LIFE  AND   THE  GLOBY,  41 


IV. 


THE   LIFE   AND   THE    GLORY. 

The  dear  little  mother,  brisk  as  a  bee,  kind  with  as 
much  of  God  as  a  motherly  heart  can  hold,  has  gone 
downstairs  with  Emery  Ann.' 

Emery  Ann  is  our  friend  in  the  kitchen ;  she  has 
kept  the  tins  and  the  coppers  shining  ever  since  I  was 
ten  years  old.  Born  with  a  fate  and  a  genius,  —  to 
scrub  and  to  brighten ;  christened  with  an  inspira- 
tion. 

They  are  going  to  beat  whites  and  yolks  of  new-laid 
eggs,  fine  sugar,  and  a  little  drift  of  flour,  —  "barely 
enough  to  hold  soul  and  body  together,"  Emery  Ann 
says,  —  into  the  spongiest, — no,  sponge  is  tough;  it 
isn't  sponge-cake  they  make,  —  but  the  foamiest,  puffi- 
est, airiest,  yellow  tenderness  of  sweetness  that  can  be 
baked  in  a  pan,  and  come  out  with  a  crispness  all  over 


42  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINaS. 

it,  just  sufficient  to  hold  its  rarity  iu,  and  give  you  a 
place  to  handle  and  begin  on. 

The  more  mother  is  "  driven  "  the  more  she  can  do, 
always.     She  is  like  flame  or  gun-cotton. 

Try  to  build  a  fire  with  only  a  little  kindling,  and  be 

chary  of  your  wood  because  of  the  little  there  is  to 

start  upon,  —  give  it  only  one  solid  stick,  and  see  how 

loth  it  will  be  to  take  hold !     How  it  will  eat  up  its 

chance,  and  dodge  its  work!     How  the  little  flickers 

will  dwindle  and  shrink,  like  pretences  that  have  no 

heart  in  them,  and  leave  only  a  smoke  and  a  blackness 

where  they  just  touched  what  was  laid  upon  them  and 

drew  back !      Then  give  it  more    to  do,  before   it  is 

quite  burnt  out.     Lay  another  stick  on,  and  another. 

Leave  little  airholes  and  climbing-places,  and  see  how 

the  life  leaps  up  again,  reaching  to  the  topmost,  after 

the  nature  of  all  spirit,  to  which  the  bright  element  is 

so  close  an  approach  and  emblem.     You'll  build  yonv 

fii-e  just  by  laying  it  bigger.     God  makes  us  burn  so. 

It  is  a  good  thing  to  remember ;  I've  thought  of  it 

many  a  winter's  morning,  when  I've  been  down  on  my 

knees  on  the  hearth  coaxing  the  blaze. 


THE  LIFE  AND   TEE  GLOBT,  43 

I've  thought  of  the  same  thing  when  I've  had  an  old 
pair  of  scissors  to  deal  with ;  a  dull,  loose  pair,  with 
no  grasp  in  them.  Try  them  on  a  single  thread,  or  a 
thin,  flimsy  fabric,  and  what  a  fuss  !  They  double,  and 
grind,  and  fray  and  worry,  and  might  as  well  be  one 
half  on  one  side  of  the  room  and  one  on  the  other,  for 
all  the  cut  you  can  get  out  of  them.  But  fold  up  two 
or  three  thicknesses  of  the  same  thing,  or  set  them  at 
a  stout,  heavy  cloth,  and  away  they  go,  as  young  as 
ever  they  were. 

I've  noticed  it  true  of  a  good  many  things.  It  is 
a  principle  that  runs  through  the  world,  and  the  life 
and  the  doing  of  it. 

A  young  engineer,  fresh  from  the  war,  told  me  about 
the  gun-cotton.  If  you  give  it  an  easy  job,  it  will 
take  it  easy  ;  there'll  be  very  little  explosive  effect ;  as 
likely  as  not  it  won't  work  at  all.  But  pile  on  difficul- 
ty ;  bury  it  deep  ;  seal  it  close ;  let  there  be  tons  of 
rock  or  masonry  above  it  and  in  its  way ;  and  it 
wakes  up ;  it  flings  out  all  its  awful  force ;  it  rends 
and  hurls,  and  shatters ;  and  tears  its  escape,  through 
and  up,  and  out,  like  a  challenged  fiend.     It  scorns 


44  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

light  work ;  it  is  at  home  only  among  tremendous  op* 
posing  forces. 

Emery  Ann  says  mother  is  the  "  spunkiest "  woman 
she  ever  knew.  The  more  you  bother  her,  the  brighter 
she'll  come  out.  The  more  you  put  upon  her,  the  bet- 
ter it'll  be  done. 

She  will  pack  a  day  as  3^ou  pack  a  trunk.  If  you've 
only  a  few  large,  light  things,  you  can  lay  them  in, 
and  make  a  great  show  of  being  brimful  directly.  But 
if  you've  got  to  crowd  close,  squeezing  in  one  thing  is 
always  making  some  little  interstice  for  another.  The 
busiest  day  that  comes,  with  her,  is  sure  to  leave  a 
corner  of  chance  for  extra  work ;  something  that  can 
be  done  as  well  as  not,  "  seeing  she  is  about  amongst 
things."  She  will  stir  up  a  pan  of  cake  because  she 
finds  she  has  to  wait  a  few  minutes  for  the  flat-irons. 
If  she  had  been  upstairs,  and  settled  down,  she  might 
not  have  thought  she  could  take  the  time  to  come  pur- 
posely and  do  it.  So  there's  that  much  clear  gain. 
Busy  lives  are  full  of  gains  like  these. 

But  it  is  nice  to  have  rest  laid  out  for  you,  once  in  a 
while,  —  even  by  a  broken  leg.     I  think,  on  the  whole, 


THE  LIFE  AND   TEE  GLOBY.  45 

now  I  have  tried  it,  that  it  is  rather  better,  if  anything, 
than  headaches.  You  have  the  same  privilege,  and  can 
make  a  good  deal  more  of  it. 

I  am  too  much  mother's  child  to  be  really  lazy  ;  but 
I  think,  for  all  that,  it  is  one  of  my  outings  when  I 
have  to  give  up  and  stay  in  bed  awhile.     It  is  morn- 
ing all  day,  then.     That  lingering  pause  of  rest  and 
thought,  —  thought   coming  in  so  easily  and  freshly, 
when  life  is  put  off  a  little,  and  we  need  not  begin 
again  just  yet  to  do.     A  time  we  are  sore  tempted  to 
steal  a  little  more  of;  and  that  is,  truly,  so  good  for 
us,  that  it  is  given  to  us  now  and  then,  in  a  whole 
slice,  perforce.     To  have  the  chamber  fresh  and  sweet, 
the  bed  nice  with  new  linen,  one's  best  cap  and  ruffles 
on,  and  all  the  little  dear  familiar  things  set  straight, 
and  looking  upon  one  round  about  with  their  pleasant- 
est  faces  ;  to  know  that  one  is  justified  in  it  all,  and 
can't  help  it ;  but  may  just  take  it  as  a  free  gift,  and 
lie  softly  under  the  blessing  of  a  ministering  love,  — I 
think  it  makes  what  comes  of  pain  a  blessedness ;   a 
help,  too,  for  the  days  beyond. 

Mother  has  done  it  all  for  me,  just  now,  sweetly  and 


46  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS, 

heartfully ;  and  has  gone  clown  with  Emery  Ann,  as  1 
saidv  leaving  me  here,  with  the  window  open,  and  my 
books  and  paper  and  pencil  on  the  bed  beside  me,  her 
kiss  warm  on  my  forehead,  and  God's  rest  underneath 
me,  to  wait  for  the  in-tings,  and  to  go  out  with  a  soul 
like  a  bird  that  has  all  heaven  to  fly  in. 

"  The  Everlasting  Arms."  I  think  of  that  when- 
ever rest  is  sweet.  How  the  whole  earth  and  the 
strength  of  it,  that  is  almightiness,  is  beneath  every 
tired  creature  to  give  it  rest ;  holding  us  5  always  ! 

No  thought  of  God  is  closer  than  that.  No  human 
tenderness  of  patience  is  greater  than  that  which  gath- 
ers in  its  arms  a  little  child,  and  holds  it,  heedless  of 
weariness.  And  He  fills  the  great  earth,  and  all  upon 
it,  with  this  unseen  force  of  his  love,  that  never  forgets 
or  exhausts  itself;  so  that  everywhere  we  may  lie 
down  in  His  bosom  and  be  comforted.  Weariness  and 
despair  and  penitence,  and  pain  and  helplessness,  — 
these  prostrate  themselves ;  they  fling  themselves  on 
the  heart  of  the  Father,  and  he  holds  them  there  1 
Jesus  fell  on  his  face  and  prayed. 


THE  LIFE  AND   THE  GLOBT.  47 

A  very  gentle  wind  lifts  and  lets  fall  the  white  cur- 
tain-edge, and  moves  tenderly  the  young  leaves. 

The  great  branches  are  still ;  only  the  little  outmost 
twigs  and  shoots  stir  softly  and  shyly  as  it  touches 
them,  hiding  their  faces  against  each  other  as  if  some 
holy  mystery  came  close.     And  so  it  does. 

The  first  thing  I  opened  my  eyes  to  this  morning 
was  this  little  moving  of  the  muslin  shade  against  my 
partly  open  window.  It  is  a  living,  and  not  a  dead 
world  that  we  are  born,  and  wake  daily,  into :  every- 
thing moving,  and  throbbing  with  life,  and  breath, 
and  presence. 

It  is  not  death  and  emptiness  we  go  out  into,  any 
more,  when  we  die ;  but  into  the  fulness  and  the  in- 
most of  the  life  behind  the  appearance.  In  this  in- 
most, how  close  we  shall  come  to  Him  and  to  each 
other!  Closer  than  we  ever  did  through  the  tj^pes 
and  patterns. 

People  talk  about  "physical  manifestations"  of 
spiritual  presence ;  as  if  they,  by  their  prying,  had 
found  out  some  new  thing,  and  got  at  what  they  never 
could  reach  before.     When  God  has  "never  left  him- 


48  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

self  without  a  witness,"  and  the  hills  and  the  trees 
and  the  clouds  and  the  grass-blades  are  forever  mak- 
ing signs  to  us,  —  the  manual  of  his  meanings. 

"Without  the  Word  was  nothing  made  that  is 
made." 

There  is  no  empty  talk  with  Him. 

And  this  Word  is  the  same,  —  the  se?/-same,  —  with 
the  living,  loving,  speaking,  Christ.  Out  from  the 
Father  this  yearning,  seeking  bestowal  of  himself 
came  in  its  fulness  by  the  begetting  of  the  Son.  The 
whole  and  uttermost  meaning  of  God  in  and  for  his 
world.  The  alphabet  of  his  language  in  humanity, 
holding  all  its  signs  and  possible  words,  —  beforehand. 
The  Alpha  and  Omega.  "  By  him  are  all  things,  and 
in  him  all  things  consist.* 

That  is  all  the  theology  I  can  find  or  come  to. 
That  is  enou|jh.  Christ  "in  the  bosom"  of  the 
Father's  glory.     "  God  with  us  "  by  him. 

I  can  shape  it  dimly  to  myself  in  this  way.  If  a 
mortal  man  could  have  a  glorious  and  holy  conception, 
a  purpose  that  should  reach  far  out  of  him,  and  could 
have  such  life  in  himself  as  to  give  it  life  in  itself,  so 


THE  LIFE  AND  TEE  GLOBY.  49 

that  it  should  be  a  love  to  bless,  and  a  conscious  glad- 
ness to  return  to  him  again,  —  so  that  it  should,  in  a 
beautiful  personality,  born  of  him  as  his  child,  and 
none  the  less  his  own  outgoing,  be  sent  to  unfold  its 
work,  counselling  with  the  soul  that  caused  it,  and 
exchanging  a  sublime  and  intimate  joy ;  if  his  spirit, 
like  the  sun,  could  throw  off  a  thought-planet  so,  — 
then  out  of  him  might  have  gone  forth  something 
that  should  be  like  the  Son  of  God. 

Beginning  at  the  other  end,  working  painfully  up, 
the  philosophers  have  reached  part  way  ;  finding  that 
man  is  the  crowning  intent  of  the  long  labor  of  crea- 
tion ;  not  remembering  how  God's  thought  is  different 
from  our  thought,  —  that  it  fulfils  itself,  and  is,  and 
lives  ;  how  he  cannot  think  of  anything  that  straight- 
way shall  not  be ;  how  when  he  thought  his  Father- 
hood and  his  creation,  and  loved  his  thought,  it  may 
be  that  his  Christ  must  needs  have  been  born,  —  that 
his  thought  might  know  itself,  and  love  Him  back, 
and  do  his  will,  and  perfect  his  joy,  which  cannot  be 
alone. 

The  Man ;  w^hose  life  was  to  be  illustrated,  in  time. 


50  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

by  all  men;   members  of  his  body ;    the   fulness   of 
Him  who  filleth  all  in  all.     In  him,  as  he  in  God. 

This  was  the  glory  that  he  prayed  for;  the  glory 
that  he  came  into  our  human  life,  fallen  away  from 
the  Divine  Pattern,  to  redeem  unto  himself;  that 
which  he  had  with  the  Father,  before  the  world  was. 
*'  I  am,  before  Abraham." 

"  The  beginning  —  the  first-born  from  the  dead  ;  " 
from  the  dead  of  that  which  was  not ;  God's  gift  of 
himself  unto  himself;  his  image,  when  in  that  image 
he  would  make  living  souls.  "  The  first-born  of 
every  creature  ; "  "in  whom  it  pleased  the  Father  that 
there  should  all  fulness  dwell."  Does  not  that  grand 
first  chapter  of  Colossians  tell  it  all? 

And  then,  again,  tbe  beginning  to  the  Hebrews,  ■ — 
to  the  people  who  with  their  old  traditions  of  creation, 
and  their  sole  revelation  of  Jehovah,  would  most  of 
all  look  to  be  told  of  the  origin  of  Cht^ist  far  back  in 
God. 

"  Who,  being  the  brightness  of  his  glory,  and  the 
express  image  of  his  person,  and^uplwlding  all  things 
by  the  word  of  his  power,"  —  this  very  God-strength 


THE  LIFE  AND   THE  GLOBT.  51 

of  the  Everlasting  Arms  that  is  forever  under  us,  —  is 
blessed  out  of  the  deep  heart  of  Almightiness  with  an 
infinite  human  joy.  ''  Thou  art  my  Son ;  th^  day 
have  I  begotten  thee.  I  will  be  to  him  a  Father,  and 
he  shall  be  to  me  a  Son.  And  let  all  the  angels  of 
God  worship  him ! " 

Can  I  believe  too  much  in  Christ,  the  Lord  ? 

Perhaps  the  apostle  might  mistake,  as  people 
measuring  him  to-day  would  reason ;  but  I,  Patience 
Strong,  mistake  als6  many  things.  How  can  I  judge  ? 
I  think  I  had  better  be  mistaken  with  Paul,  who  had 
the  nearer  and  the  grander  visioh,  than  by  my  feeble 
self. 

More,  again.  I  will  be  mistaken  with  Him,  when 
he  says,  —  "He  that  hath  seen  me  hath  seen  the 
Father.  The  only  begotten  Son,  which  is  in  the 
bosom  of  the  Father,  he  hath  declared  him.  No  man 
Cometh  unto  the  Father  but  by  me." 

Somebody  greater  than  I  should  make  out  the  awful 
gigument.  I  am  only  Patience  Strong.  These  are 
the  thoughts  that  come  to  me  of  Jesus,  and  they  come 
only  so.    They  come  in  flashes ;  lightning  out  of  the 


62  PATIENCE  STBONG'8  OUTINGS. 

one  part  unto  the  other  part  under  heaven ;  linking 
great  words  together,  and  showing  the  glory  into 
whicK  we  are  all  baptized ;  the  glory  of  the  name  of 
the  Father,  and  of  the  Son,  and  of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

Lying  here,  as  to  my  body,  so  quietly,  so  helpless- 
ly, —  thought-outings  stretch  the  farther  and  higher. 

First,  a  mere  pleasantness ;  then  a  rest,  growing 
holy  in  its  comfort,  and  the  reminder  of  it  leading  up 
to  Him  who  saith  to  all  the  weary,  —  Lo,  I  will  give  it 
you  ;  come  unto  me.  How  one  tfiat  is  again  with  the 
Everlasting  Arms!  How  Jesus  promises  for  the 
Father,  and  the  Father  for  him !  How,  sitting  at  the 
feet  of  the  One,  we  are  lifted  up  unto  the  bosom  of 
the  Other ! 

My  Lord,  —  and  my  God  ! 

The  words  of  an  impetuous  faith,  so  joined  together 
and  sundered  by  no  rebuke  of  his,  are  creed  enough 
for  me. 

I  do  not  care  to  go  further  than  the  feeling,  or  to  fit 
the  words  to  any  precise  doctrine.  How  can  we  matee 
plan  and  specification  of  these  things?  They  are  too 
high  and  wonderful.     "We  who  do  not  know  ourselves 


TEE  LIFE  AND   THE  GLORY.  53 

or  each  other,  how  shall  we  measure  and  investigate 
the  personal  relation  TDetween  Christ  and  the  Father? 
If  we  cannot  understand  to  believe  even  earthly 
things,  how  shall  we  believe  if  we  are  told  of  heav- 
enly things  ?  What  and  if  we  should  see  the  Son  of 
man  ascend  up  where  he  was  before? 

That  which  stands  so  joined  togelher,  in  the  word 
of  Christ,  and  in  the  impulse  of  faith,  is  enough.  The 
manifestation  of  Jesus  and  the  nearness  of  God.  To 
feel  him  close  is  to  be  drawn  into  the  Infinite  Glory. 
"  Christ  raised  from  the  dead  by  the  glory  of  God." 
This,  that  Paul  said  after,  was  simply,  perhaps,  what 
Thomas  felt.  The  recognition  of  the  Son  and  of  the 
Father,  which  is  forever  glad,  and  forever  one.  So 
that  "  he  that  abideth  in  the  doctrine  of  Christ  hath 
both  the  Father  and  the  Son ; "  and  receiving  him,  the 
Lord,  we  do  always  in  the  self-same  moment  receive 
and  fill  ourselves  with  God. 

I  have  gone  high  and  far,  to-day.  Here  must  the 
end  be,  and  the  hush  ;  —  at  His  feet  I 


54.  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  0VTING8, 


INTO   THE  MEANINGS. 

I  KNEW  that  the  world  was  built  by  correspondences 
before  I  ever  heard  of  Swedenborg ;  that  there  were 
meanings  in  things,  and  that  things  had  to  be  made 
for  the  giving  of  the  meanings.  I  suppose  I  have  said 
it,  over  and  over,  already,  *it  is  so  much  in  my  mind. 
And  why  not?  Since  the  whole  world  —  and  worlds 
—  are  the  eternal  telegraphy  from  God's  thought  into 
ours ;  meant,  therefore,  to  be  in  our  minds,  and  that 
continually  ;  the  very  inpouring  of  life. 

I  have  read  them  out,  some  of  them,  in  New  Church 
writings  since ;  and  I  have  only  woi^dered  that  there 
had  ever  needed  to  be  such  a  S3^stem  built ;  as  if 
Christ  had  not  sufficiently  indicated  and  inaugurated 
it,  when  he  translated  all  his. holy  lessons  straight 
from  the  glowing  parables  of  God.  And  I  think  —  at 
lea.st  it  always  seems  to  me  —  that  the  great  trouble 


INTO   THE  MEANINGS.  55 

«  ■• 

with  the  Swedenborgian  system  is  that  it  is  too  defi- 
nite. You  can't  make  a  dictionary  of  these  things. 
The  Spirit  takes  them  and  uses  them  as  it  will.  They 
are  broad  and  elastic,  and  many-sided ;  they  show 
this  to  the  soul  to-day,  and  that  to-morrow,  as  it 
needs ;  and  every  showing  is  true.  And  the  soul 
.must  grow  up  into  them,  as  a  child  into  a  language 
into  which  it  is  born ;  which  is  such  a  different,  liv- 
ing  thing  from  the  same  language  taught  by  rule  and 
method  of  letter  and  construction.  That  was  the  way 
they  heard,  of  old,  by  the  Spirit,  each  in  his  own 
tongue,  in  which  he  was  born,  —  no  other. 

I  know  that  water  means  truth,  and  cleansing ;  the 
truth  that  enters  through  the  intelligence,  and  the 
clear-seeing  of  God's  signs. 

But  you  cannot  say  it  all,  in  saying  that. 
It  is  gladness  and  gift,  and  many  things  more. 
Round  and  round  the  world,  through  all  the  thirst  of 
it,  it  goes,  taking  its  way  in  many  changing  forms. 
In  it  are  moving  things  ;  things  that  are  born  of,  and 
are  joyous  in  it,  as  our  thoughts  and  knowledges  are 
born  of  and  glad  in,  the  full,  deep  sea  that  spiritually 


56  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

holds  them.  It  cools,  it  comforts,  it  quenches,  it  de- 
lights. It  is  the  fine  element  by  which  are  transfused 
all  the  subtleties  of  vegetable  life ;  all  the  juices  of 
our  physical  bodies.  It  is  the  vehicle  for  giving  ot 
good,  and  for  taking  away  of  superfluity  and  evi! ; 
it  penetrates,  solves,  perspires ;  it  is  one  of  God's 
great,  comprehensive  wonders. 

Jesus  could  promise  no  greater,  nor  fuller,  than  to 
say,  "  I  will  give  you  water ;  and  it  shall  be  in  you, 
springing  up  to  eveilasting  life."  Water  is  joy, — 
satisfying ;  all  craving  and  answer  meet  in  this  em- 
bodied pledge  of  heaven. 

If  I  were  to  give  you  some  thoughts  of  mine  about 
it,  just  as  I  once  wrote  them  down,  perhaps  you  would 
say,  "  It  is  not  Patience  Strong."  That  is  why  I 
hardly  like  to  give  them ;  and  yet  they  belong  just 
here.  Thinkings  trace  themselves  round,  until  they 
meet  their  own  curves  again,  like  some  intricate  pat- 
tern that  joins  its  line  and  shows  itself  suddenly 
one. 

I  was  always  a  little  afraid  of  big  words.  When 
we  were  children,  Eliphalet  used  to  call   me  Poll^ 


INTO   THE  MEANINGS.  57 

Syllable,  if  ever  I  used  them  ;  and  nothing  made  me 
more  ashamed. 

So  I  have  mostly  kept  my  verses  to  myself.  Mother 
sees  them ;  but  then  she  knows ;  she  understands 
ways  and  fashions,  times  and  occasions.  She  knows 
that  the  same  woman  can  i^ut  herself  into  a  gingham 
short  gown  and  old  shoes,  or  high-heeled  slippers  and 
a  long  train  ;  and  that  nothing  is  easier,  perhaps,  than 
such  outside  change,  or  makes  less  matter  to  the  real 
woman  inside.  I  think  she  could  write  poetry  per- 
fectly well  herself,  and  come  out  of  it  again  into  her 

» 
simple  Yankee  every-day,  exactly  the  same  as -ever. 

We  lift  up  our  words  to  meet  our  thoughts ;  and  let 
them  down  again  for  homelier  use?. 

Anyway,  I  just  am  Patience  Strong  ;  I  am  sure  of 
that,  myself,  whether  or  no.  Other  people  must  make 
what  they  can  out  of  it. 

I  wrote  this,  then,  about  the 

RAIN. 
From  all  this  vital  orb  of  earth 

A  breath  exhaleth  to  the  air, 
That  heaven-distilled  to  equal  grace, 

Falls,  a  fresh  bounty,  everywhere. 


58  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS, 

The  dark  mould  drinks  the  sunset  cloud, 
And  tastes  of  heaven ;  unconsciously, 

Green  forest-depths  are  stirred  to  catch 
A  far-off  flavor  of  the  sea. 

No  drop  is  lost.     God  counteth  all. 

And  icy  crests,  in  glory  crowned, 
With  faint  ros^petals  yield  and  take, 

And  so  the  unwasted  joy  goes  round. 

One  spirit  moveth  in  it  all; 

One  life  that  worketh  large  and  free, 
To  each,  from  all,  for  evermore, 

Giving  and  gathering  silently. 

God's  stintless  joy  goes  rojind,  goes  round  i 
*  No  soul  that  dwelleth  so  apart 

It  may  not  feel  the  circling  pulse 
Outwelling  from  the  Eternal  Heart. 

Athirst  !  athirst !     The  sandy  soil 
Bears  no  glad  trace  of  leaf  or  tree; 

No  grass-blade  sigheth  to  the  heaven 
Its  little  drop  of  ecstasy; 

Yet  other  fields  are  spreading  wide 
Green  bosoms  to  the  bounteous  sun; 

And  palms  and  cedars  shall  sublime 
Their  rapture  for  thee,  waiting  one  ! 

^  It  comes  with  stnell  of  summeV  showerB, 

To  stir  a  dreamy  sense  withi  a, 


INTO   TEE  MEANINGS.  59 

Half  hope,  and  half  a  pained  regret,  — 
It  may  be,  —  or,  it  might  have  been  ! 

The  joy  that  knows  there  is  a  joy; 

That  scents  its  breath,  and  cries,  'tis  there! 
And,  patient  in  its  pure  repose, 

Receiveth  so  the  holier  share. 

I  know  a  life  whose  cheerless  bound 

Is  like  a  deep  and  silent  chasm 
Left  dark  between  the  daybright  hills, 

In  time  long  past,  by  fiery  spasm. 

The  mocking  sunlight  leaps  across; 

The  stars,  with  Levite  glance,  go  by; 
So  vainly  doth  its  dreary  depth 

Plead  to  the  far-off,  pitiless  sky. 

Yet  ever  from  the  flinty  marge. 

And  down  each  rough  and  cavernous  side, 

Trickle  the  drops  that  bear  their  balm 
From  ferny  bank  and  pasture  wide. 

It  drinketh,  —  drinketh,  —  day  by  day; 

And  still,  within  its  bosom  deep, 
The  waiting  water,  filtered  clear, 

Doth  in  a  crystal  beauty  sleep. 

Waiting  and  swelling,  till  it  find 

God's  outlet,  long  while  placed  and  planned, 

Whence,  strong  and  jubilant,  it  shall  sweep 
Down,  with  a  son";-burst,  o'er  the  land. 


60  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

I  don't  think  I  had  any  life  in  particular  in  my 
mind  when  I  said  that.  Certainly,  I  wouldn't  have 
you  suppose  it  was  my  own.  And  yet,  my  own  may 
have  looked  so  to  me  in  some  dark  moment  or  other. 
For  I  have  had  my  pinches  and  pains ;  and  I  have 
seen  people  who  were  shut  up  from  much  of  the  sun- 
light that  seems  to  be  everywhere ;  and  out  of  the 
waiting  and  the  wanting  that  so  I  know  of  comes 
the  comfort  that  we  may  all  take  together. 

Water  is  one  thing.  Then  we  come  up  higher  and 
find  another,  lyifig  just  above  it ;  penetrating  ever}^- 
where,  yet  more  intimately  ;  not  to  be  seen  or  handled, 
only  to  be  breathed  and  felt.  We  are  born  of  water, 
and  of  the  spirit.  There  is  the  life  that  comes  in 
through  the  understanding  —  that  we  can  stop  and  lay 
hold  of,  and  pour  back  and  forth,  and  put  into  vessels  ; 
that  is  the  mind-perception.  There  is  also  the  soul- 
perception,  which  is  the  breath  of  God ;  the  upper 
atmosphere,  in  which  our  finer  being  lives,  and  that 
pulses  and  flows  as  it  lists,  and  we  catch  the  delicate 
motion  and  hear  the  sound  thereof,  but  can  never  tell 


INTO   THE  MEANINGS.  61 

whence  it  comes,  or  whither  it  has  gone.   Yet  out  of  it 
we  die. 

And  in  it  moves  about  us  a  tenderer  and  more  beau- 
tiful life  than  the  life  of  the  waters.  Winged  crea- 
tures come  and  go ;  and  there  are  many  sweet  voices 
therein. 

What  does  it  mean,  then,  this  clear,  blue  firmament? 
What  do  the  birds  mean  ? 

I  lay  on  my  sofa  and  thought  about  it ;  waiting  for 
Emery  Ann  to  bring  me  up  my  tea. 

And  while  I  waited  the  chimney-swifts  were  flying 
about  in  their  quick,  graceful  circles,  and  away  off 
over  the  wood  a  great  hawk  was  flapping  slowly,  and 
tiny  things  in  bushes  and  branches  were  making  their 
little  home-flights  and  happy  heart-chirps  ;  and  some- 
how the  wide  ah',  and  the  sounds,  and  the  stillness,  -^ 
and  the  sure  and  beautiful  motion  —  the  region  of  life 
so  close  and  yet  so  out  of  grasp  —  opened  a  strange 
sense  to  me  ;  a  sense  of  the  near  and  intangible  things 
of  the  spirit. 

Not  a  great  emptiness,  —  untraversable,  —  but  full 
of  movement  and  errand.     Yes,  that  is  what  it  tells 


62  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

us.  That  out  and  above  and  bej^ojid  where  we  can 
bodily  go,  God  has  made  things  with  wings,  th^at  lift 
themselves  in  this  finer  element,  and  go  straight  and 
swift  from  point  to  point,  whither  they  need  and 
Whither  he  will.  Qut  of  om  vision,  away  over  forests 
and  waters,  to  far-off  places,  and  back  to  oiir  side. 

They  are  thoughts,  again,  —  those  other  thoughts, 
more  instant  and  keen,  not  of  the  mind-life,  but  of 
the  soul,  —  that  reach,  and  long,  and  go  forth  and 
divine  their  way  through  the  invisible. 

The  eagles  gather  together  to  that  which  draws 
them,  and  "  the  doves  fly  to  their  windows  ;"  and  the 
little  sparrows,  even,  are  safe  ;  for  God  takes  care  of 
th6ra,  and  not  one  shall  fall  to  the  ground  without 
him.     He  also  feedeth  them. 

They  are  affections,  that  find  that  to  which  they  are 
sent,  let  them  forth  from  whence  jou.  will ;  that  know 
their  climate  and  their  food,  and  their  dear  and  pleas- 
ant haunts  ;  and  that  link  the  latitudes  together. 

Noah  floated  long  upon  the  dark  waters  ;  then  into 
the  air  he  sent  forth  a  dove ;  she  came  back  to  his 
heart  at  first,  bearing  no  hope  ;  then  she  l)rought  him 


INTO   THE  MEANINGS.  63 

a  greenness  of  peace ,'    and  by  and  by  she  went  and 
stayed.' 

So  it  is  after  a  grief.  The  thought  that  goes  out 
comes  back,  a  restless  pain ;  after  a  while  it  brings 
some  leaf  of  healing ;  then  it  finds  the  green  place  of 
its  longing,  and  we  feel  in  ourselves  its  far  and  sweet 
alighting,  and  we  know  tliat  by  and  by  we  shall  be 
there. 

That  is  the  difference  between  the  thing-  and  the 
type  of  it.  The  bird  flies,  and  we  have  no  more  hold 
of  it.  The  thought  goes,  and  something  out  of  our 
own  selves  —  some  real  thing  —  has  met  the  dawn, 
or  has  found  t^e  mountain,  or  entered  beforehand  into 
the  blessed  summer. 

I  was  so  glad  in  these  things  that  came  to  me  to- 
nighth  so  glad  of  the  steps  and  shades  by  which 
earth  climbs  and  rarefies  till  it  touches  heaven.  It 
seems  as  if  God  brought  us  almost  there;  thinning 
life  till  it  is  all  but  spirit,  —  touching  its  forms  with  a 
more  delicate  glory,  from  the  rock  and  the  water  to 
l;he  air  and  the  light;  from  the  coarseness  of  touch 
and  taste  to  the  sweet  subtleties  of  sound  and  odor, 


64:  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS.. 

and   the  faint  percept'.ons  of  something  possible  be- 
yond even  these. 

In  a  twilight  like  this,  or  in  the  tender,  early  morn- 
ing, —  when  the  music  is  just  a  breath  in  the  birds* 

throats,    and    the   fragrance   is   something  that    you 

*■ 
hardly  know  how  you  get,  whether  through   sense  or 

spirit,  —  one  might  seem  to  have  no  choice  Vhich  world 

one  would  waken  into  out  of  the  beautiful  dream ;  one 

is  so  upon  the  threshold. 

When  Jesus  said,  "  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  at 
hand,"  I  don't  think  he  meant  so  much  a  kingdom 
coming^  as  a  kingdom  here. 

The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  "  close  by  j  "  that  is  what 
"  at  hand"  means. 

"Say  not  there  are  yet  four  months,"  —  or  four 
cycles;  "  lift  up  your  ej^es,  and  look;  the  fields  are 
white*  already ;"  and  the  harvest  of  the  kingdom  is 
ripe,  in  the  very  midst  of  the  world. 

I  was  so  glad  in  these  thoughts  that  I  couldn't  wait 
for  mother  to  come  in  ;  —  she  had  gone  out,  by  very 
hard  begging  of  mine,  to  drink  tea  with  Mrs.  Shreve; 
so  when  Emery  Ann  came  up  with  mine,  that  is,  with 


INTO  THE  MEANINGS.  65 

my  fresh  milk  and  my  bread  and  butter,  and  my  cur- 
rants and  raspberries,  red  and  white,  mixed  in  a  little 
glass  dish  and  covered  with  white  sugar,  — - 1  couldn't 
help  catching  at  her.  Besides,  something  else  oc- 
curred to  me  all  in  a  flash. 

"  Just  look  there,  Emery  Ann,  please  ;  on  that  little 
table  in  the  corner.  See  if  the  book  isn't  there  that 
Miss  Philena  brought  for  me  the  other  day:  in  a 
green  binding  ;  '  Thoughts  in  my  Garden,'  — that's  it. 
Now,  wait  a  minute."  And  I  held  her  fast  by  a  corner 
of  her  apron. 

"  Wait  a  minute  ;  I  don't  believe  a  bit  but  that  it 
will  be  here.     It  ought  to  be." 

I  turned  the  pages  as  quickl}^  as  I  could  with  one 
hand ;  I  dared  not  leave  go  with  the  other  of  Emery 
Ann  ;  I  wanted  somebody. 

"  '  Birds  and  other  things ! '  "Wait  a  minute. 
'  Birds  and  all  winged  creatures  correspond  to  *  — 
there,  I  knew  it !  Exactly  the  same !  Just  as  I 
found  it  out,  my  own  self.  Emery  Ann,  when  two 
people  find  out  the  same  thing,  you  see  it's  sure." 

"  Hum  !     I  don't  know.     Lots  of  people  have  found 


66     -  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS., 

out  lots  of  mistakes.  Lies,  beside.  And  stuck  to 
'em." 

"But  no!  this  way.  Not  things  that  you  find 
straight  out,  by  just  looking  at  them.  Emery  Ann,  I 
know  what  the  birds  mean.  And  she  says  so,  too. 
They're  thoughts.  Things  that  go,  —  really  go, — 
where  nothing  else  can.  Heaven  is  just  as  full  of 
goings  and  comings  as  the  sky  is  of  birds.  There's 
a  way  everywhere  ;  for  wings,  or  something." 

Emery  Ann  always  rubs  everything  down. 

"Hum!"  she  said  again.  "  Like  as  not.  That 
accounts  for  all  sorts  of  flightiness." 


INTO  THE  OLD  AND  THE  NEW.  67 


VI. 


INTO   THE    OLD   AND   THE   NEW. 

When  I  have  once  had  a  thought,  —  of  my  own  or 
one  that  is  brought  to  my  remembrance,  —  it  keeps 
coming  back,  bringing  others  with  it,  —  all  its  rela- 
tions. It  joins  this  with  that,  showing  how  all  belong 
together,  and  illustrate  and  strengthen  each  other. 
The  mind  in  its  working,  overlaps  itself,  like  the  tide, 
or  like  the  way  a  little  child  takes  to  learn  a  verse  or 
a  hymn.  Over  and  over,  one  line  ;  then  that,  and  the 
next  joined  with  it ;  then  the  two,  with  a  third.  So 
on,  always  beginning  aga'in,  or  back  for  a  little  way. 
It  is  the  way  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  out  of  which 
one  brings  the  treasures  new  and  old. 

Living  by  hints.  Since  that  came  into  my  head,  it 
has  helped  everything. 

The  grandest  and  truest  and  sweetcjst  things  are 
always  hints,  —  no  more.     The  minute  you  try  to  bo 


68  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS. 

literal  and  explicit  with  them  they  are  gone.  You 
cannot  argue  or  explain  the  things  of  the  spirit.  The 
highest  and  most  intimate  perceptions  are  glimpses. 
Things  said  all  out  are  platitudes ;  feeling  analyzed 
and  explained  is  dead  before  it  is  dissected ;  dead, 
and  time  it  was  buried. 

Our  human  love,  and  our  heavenly  faiths,  the  surest 
comforts  of 'Christ's  gospel,  hang  themselves  upon 
suggestions. 

Jesus  never  says  all.  He  lets  fall  golden  words, 
that  provide  no  record,  into  the  great  deep  where  com- 
mon words  are  lost ;  he  touches  the  key-note  of  a  truth 
with  a  single  divine  smiting,  and  leaves  its  circle  of 
sound  to  spread  ;  only  calling  down  after  it  into  the 
years,  "He  that  hath  ears  to  hear  let  him  hear." 
It  is  the  secret  of  inspiration  ;  the  difference  between 
that  and  common  study  and  thinking.  It  is  the  justi- 
fication of  Moses  before  the  computers  and  the  classi- 
fiers. And  that  is  just  what  came  and  joined  itself  to 
my  notion  of  the  in-tings,  —  the  hints. 

I  have  been  reading  lately  among  these  things  that 
are  written  by  the  plummet  and  line  of  science,  and 


mro  THE  OLD  AND   THE  NEW.  -  69 

that  are  so  full  of  jealous  anxiety  about  the  old  faiths 
that  did  not  wait  for  them. 

The  wonder  to  me  is  what  they  find  to  conflict  about, 
—  these  philosophers  and  theologians.  "Why  the  ones 
are  so  indignant  at  Moses,  and  the  others  so  fearful 
and  uproused  in  his  behalf  ?  When  he  never  under- 
took —  or  God  by  him  —  anything  at  all  in  the  d^-ec- 
tion  of  such  antagonism. 

Inspiration  is  not  science,  or  research.  It  is  even  a 
more  glorious  thing.  It  does  not  dig  down  into  dark- 
ness, canning  its  torch  ;  it  reaches  upward  and  grasps 
the  very  light  out  of  heaven.  It  sees  the  red  in  the 
sky  while  the  evil  and  adulterous  generations  are  yet 
seeking  after  their  signs. 

What  did  it  matter  to  Moses  how  many  strata  deep 
the  old  deposits  of  earth-crust  might  have  been  in  his 
day,  or  what  details  of  life  and  construction  they  were 
hereafter  to  reveal  ?  He  went  away  back  behind  them 
all,  into  the  unmade  worlds  and  the  loving  counsel  of 
God.  He  stood  up  among  the  nations  that  were  wor- 
shipping sun  and  moon  and  fire  and  beast,  and  cried 
out :    "In  the   beginning  God   created   the  heavens 


70  ^  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS, 

and  the  earth."  Time  was  when  His  life. had  not  yet 
been  given,  when  all  this  matter  of  which  your  heaven 
and  earth,  your  sun  and  moon,  are  made,  was  void. 
Only  the  Spirit  of  God  moved  over  the  face  of  it. 
Then,  at  last,  He  said,  "  Let  there  be  light ! "  And 
there  was  light. 

I  wonder  if  Moses  did  not  go  at  one  leap  above  and 
beyond  all  science  in'  this,  his  divine  apprehension? 
If  this  great  hint  of  his  does  not  touch  at  once  the 
subtile  inmost  of  the  life  God  gave  and  continually 
gives,  into  his  world  ?  One  breath  of  His  command, 
one  pulse  of  his  will,  and  straightway  ever}^  particle 
is  luminous  with  presence,  instinct  with  electric 
force.  -  . 

Have  they  come  to  anything  nearer  the  awful  life- 
-  secret  than  this  ?  Have  they  entered  farther  into  the 
holy  place,  in  their  newest  theories  of  nebulous  mist, 
golden  with  glory,  gathering  and  revolving  and  fling- 
ing off  into  space  by  the  grand  primal  energy  which 
can  be  only  what  the  prophet  declares,,  by  his  direct 
insight,  the  informing  word  of  God  ? 
It  was  this  that  Moses  had  to  declare  ;  not  any  ao 


INTO   THE  OLD  AND   TEE  NEW,  71 

count  of  intervening  processes.     What  if  he  had  wait- 
ed until  the  last  fossil  was  dug  up  ? 

He  waited  for  nothing  ;  neither  for  geolog^n^  nor  for 
the  measure  or  shape  of  the  planet,  nor  for  the  boun- 
dary line  of  the  system.  He  talks  superbly  of  the 
heavens  and  the  earth ;  of  waters  under  the  firmament 
and  waters  above  the  firmament ;  of  the  seas  and  of  the 
diy  land ;  of  the  gathering  together  and  the  setting 
apart.  He  does  not  go  into  detail.  He  only  deals 
with  the  magnificent  outline.  One  page  of  a  little  book 
holds  all  his  words  about  it.  He  sings  his  glorious 
song  of^he  creation,  that  stands  true,  in  the  soul  of  it, 
whatever  comes  to  be  proved  or  overturned  in  circum- 
stance. He  enumerates  the  orders  of  life  and  being, 
and  says,  simply,  "None  of  these  are  gods.  God 
gave  his  life  into  them  all.  By  separate  thought  he 
made  them  each  to  be.  None  came  but  by  his  act." 
And,  after  each  clause  of  the  great  story  that  could 
only  be  a  holy  poem,  after  each  declared  creative  im- 
pulse, he  repeats  his  refrain:  "And  God  saw  that 
this  also  was  good.     Antl  the  evenins;  and  the  mornino; 


72         '      PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS. 

were   the    first,"  —  or    the  ^second,   or   the   third, — 
"  day." 

There  is  no  absurd  fable  in  this.  There  is  only  a 
grand  hinting  at  precisely  what  the  philosophers  are 
proving,  —  the  mighty  order,  and  succession,  and  pa- 
tient, sure  development  of  God's  work. 

We  are  such  poor,  little,  letter-bound  creatures, 
thinkiug  only  of  sunrise  and  sunset ;  not  learning, 
even,  what  our  own  day  is  to  us,  of  which  the  earth- 
movement,  the  shine  and  the  shadow,  are  only  the 
types  and  the  correspondence.  When  we  live  true 
da3^s,  —  da3^s  like  God's,  —  making  each  a  stej)  and  an 
accomplishment,  and  entering  into  his  morning  and 
evening  joy,  —  then  we  shall  know.  We  get  faint 
glimpses  when  we  have  been  a  little  faithful,  and  a 
great  deal  helped  of  him.  When  there  comes  a  pur- 
pose with  the  freshness,  and  a  certainty  of  something 
done  with  the  decline  ;  when  the  outward -day  has  its 
inward  counterpart ;  when  our  whole  soul  has  turned 
itself  to  its  sun  and  strength  in  the  heaven,  and  is  on 
in  its  orbit  over  a  spiritual  space. 

After  such  pattern  in  his  own  ineffable  and  eternal 


INTO   THE  OLD  AND   THE  NEW.  73 

Life,  He  was  making  our  little  planetary  aays.  What 
had  they  to  do  with  measuring  him  ? 

Six  days,  and  then  the  Sabbath.  The  rest  God  has 
in  the  depths  of  his  own  spirit  over  his  work  ;  the  bles- 
sedness that  returns  upon  him  out  of  his  giving ;  the 
sublime  alternation  in  the  Divine  Nature,  of  which  this 
seventh  day,  also,  that  he  gives  us,  is  a  symbol  and 
result. 

For  it  is  true  all  through^  as  everything  is  ;  working 
out  from  God  into  the  last  circle  of  his  providence  ;  it 
runs  into  our  literal  weeks  and  days.  Every  Saturday 
night-fall  and  Sunday  dawn  of  a  busy  life  proves  it,  to 
soul  and  body.  It  is  because  of  the  image  of  Him  in 
which  we  are  made,  that  there  is  possible  and  needful 
to  us,  also,  his  own  glad  peace ;  his  rest,  and  reflow, 
and  gathering  up.  What  has  this  either,  as  to  him- 
self and  his  mysterious  periods,  to  do  with  our  mere 
hours  and  reckoning? 

It  seems  to  me  as  if  Moses  would  laugh  at  our  fool- 
ish interpretations  and  disputes ;  as  if  it  could  hardly 
have  occurred  to  him  that  we  would  mistake  him  so. 
It  seems  to  me  he  was  grander  in  his  ignorance  and  m* 


74  PATIENCE  STEONG'S  OUTINGS. 

sight  than  we  are  in  our  little  bits  of  fact  and  calcula 
lation  that  we  have  picked  up  and  are  continually 
rectifj^ing. 

He  stood  with  God,  receiving  of  him  sublime  intui 
tions  ;  uttering  them  with  lofty  fervor  in  poetic  speech. 
It  was  that  recognition  which  waits  for  no  slow  learn- 
ing ;  which  needs  it  not ;  which  makes  the  fisherman 
of  Galilee  able  to  say  to  the  face  of  Christ,  "  Thou  art 
the  Son  of  the  living  God  ! "  And  to  which  the  Lord 
makes  answer,  "  Blessed  art  thou !  For  flesh  and 
blood  have  not  revealed  it  unto  thee,  but  my  Father 
which  is  in  heaven.  Behold,  this  is  the  rock  whereon 
I  will  build  my  church ;  and  the  gates  of  hell  shall 
not  prevail  against  it." 

God  has  forever  built  his  church  on  this.  He  never 
hid  away  his  living  truth,  the  need  of  man,  in  the  dead 
rocks  or  the  deep  earth.  He  gives  it,  quick  and  warm, 
into  the  human  spirit ;  it  is  nigh,  even  in  our  mouths 
and  in  our  hearts. 

I  think  the  song  of  Moses  and  his  bold  story  of  the 
Genesis,  —  so  daring  in  its  personification,  so  deeply  and 
minutely  true  of  human  spirit  and  life  in  the  Father*a 


INTO   THE   OLD  AND   THE  NEW.'  75 

hands,  —  will  stand,  and  will  sound  glorious  and  inter- 
pret wonderfully  in  the  ears  of  men,  while  many  a  the- 
ory and  philosophy  shall  shift  and  crumble.  Because  it 
is  behind  all  these  ;  it  holds  fast  by  the  skirts  of  Grod*s 
own  garment ;  because  it  reads  forward  and  not  back- 
ward ;  it  looks  from  eternity  down  into  time.  By  and 
by,  with  slow  footsteps,  the  knowledge  of  time  and  the 
record  in  things  will  lead  up  to  it,  and  they  will  find 
themselves  at  one. 

I  think  God  was  good  and  wise  to  give  us  himself 
first  and  his  story  afterward.  I  sometimes  wonder 
why  these  worshippers  of  fact  do  not  find  a  fact  as 
great  as  any  in  the  existence  and  perpetuation  of  that 
which  we  call  the  Scripture  of  Revelation.  That  God 
has  not  suffered  what  he  has  given  into  the  souls  of 
men  to  perish  without  a  sign,  any  more  than  the  trilo- 
bites  or  the  remains  of  the  cave-dwellers.  He  keeps 
his  outside  story  with  care,  and  leads  us  to  it  in  his 
own  good  time,  delighting  our  minds  with  the  knowl- 
edge of  his  wonders.  He  keeps  also,  —  a  living  thing 
among  us,  —  the  record  of  the  highest  reach  of  the  soul 
after  him,  and  of  his  fullest  inward  gift. 


76  *  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

Simply  that  the  Bible  is,  makes  me  sure  that  God's 
glory  is  in  it. 

Only,  I  know  that  having  given  once,  it  is  that  he 
means  to  and  must  needs  give  again  ;  and  that  the  in- 
stant bestowal  must  lighten  upon  the  old  ;  that  the  one 
without  the  other  is  dead.  Therefore  the  dead  do 
bury  their  dead.  "  In  thy  light,"  only,  "  shall  we  see 
light." 

We  can  dig  for  fossils ;  we  must  beg  of  God  for 
himself. 

My  outings  are  getting  to  be  such  sermons  ! 

Living  is  a  strange  thing.  If  you  put  it  together 
just  as  it  is  given  out  it  hardly  looks  as  if  it  belonged 
to  the  same  piece.  It  sounds  positively  wicked  if  you 
tell  of  it.  Dusting  and  divinity,  —  prayers  and  pie- 
crust, —  mix  themselves  up  together.  Joseph's  coat 
was  of  many  colors.     So  are  God's  love  and  gift. 

To-morrow,  perhaps,  I  shall  lay  "  Origin  and  Desti- 
ny "  by,  and  be  making  the  sleeves  of  my  new  ruffled 
sack  that  I  mean  to  look  so  nice  in  ;  and  I  shan't  seem 
to  have  any  longer  reach  or  tether  than  the  few  inches 
of  whip-hem  and  cord-gathering  that  I  shall  be  doing. 


INTO   THE  OLD  AND   THE  NEW,  77 

I  shall  like  it  too  ;  and  my  whole  clay  will  be  taken  up 
with  it,  and  if  I  finish  it  all  I  shall  go  to  htd  with  one 
of  my  little  —  cambric  —  satisfactions. 

Well,  He  does  also  a  great  many  little,  and  a  great 
many  pretty,  things. 

We  cannot  be  too  little  to  be  like  Him ;  nor  so  great 
as  to  work  outside  of  Him. 

I  wonder  when  I  shall  open  this  parcel  that  Elipha 
let  left  for  me  when  he  went  away?  It  is  to  be 
"  sometime  when  I  am  particularly  low  in  my  mind, 
and  want  something  to  hearten  me  and  chirk  me  up." 
Eliphalet  admires  to  talk  like  all  the  old  aunts  and 
grandmothers  once  in  a  while,  and  that  was  the  mes- 
sage he  sent  out  with  it  by  Gertrude,  She  said,  in  her 
pretty  way,  that  it  was  "  a  fairy  gift ;  a  nut  to  be 
cracked  when  the  time  of  need  came." 

It  feels  like  a  book.  Maybe  it  is  some  little  picture. 
I  like  to  wonder  what  it  is  ;  I  don't  know  but  that  if  I 
hadn't  such  a  plenty  of  other  things  to  keep  me  from 
being  down-hearted,  I  might,  "  chirk  up  "  just  on  the 
guessing,  and  never  need  anything  more. 


78  PATIENCE  STIiONG'S  OUTINGS. 

That  is  such  a  good,  brim-full  word,  —  hearten !  It 
gives  you  the  reason  why.  Nobody  can  be  low  in 
their  mind  until  they  have  first  got  low  in  their  heart. 

But  I  haven't  wanted  much  chirking  or  heartening 
yet.  I  haven't  had  the  least  first  bit  of  a  chance  to 
run  down  anywhere. 

So  I  keep  the  little  parcel,  "  till  called  for  ;  "  to  look 
at  and  guess  about.  As  long  as  I  don't  open  it,  it 
may  be  anything ;  and  it's  always  well  to  have  the 
medicine  on  the  shelf,  and  to  take  an  umbrella  with 
you  to  "  spite  ojf  the  rain."    As  Emery  Ann  says. 


**  FOEZINO.**  79 


vn. 

"  FORZINO," 

Emfry  Ann  had  killed  a  fly  that  had  been  buzzing 
round  her  nose. 

"  There ! "  she  cried,  with  satisfaction,  as  he  fell 
from  between  her  hands,  —  "  there's  one  less  of  'em  !  *' 

"  One  less  little  life  in  the  world,"  said  I,  hyper- 
sentimentally. 

"  Well,  maybe  he'll  be  something  better  next  time," 
said  Emery  Ann. 

"  Do  you  believe  in  that?  '*  I  asked  her. 

*'  Forzino,"  said  she. 

Emery  Ann  was  not  talking  Italian.  It  was  the 
Yankee  which,  being  interpreted,  means  "  As  far  as  I 
know." 

And  that  is  as  far  as  a  Yankee,  or  anybody  else,  can 

go- 
As  far  as  we  know,  why  shouldn't  it  be? 


80  PATIENCE  STBONG^'S  OUTINGS. 

Why  these  pains  of  life  and  death  for  things 
for  which  there  is  to  be  nothing  "  better  next 
time"? 

I  wonder  if  anybody  ever  suggested,  as  a  solution 
of  the  development  question,  the  idea  of  spiritual 
"  selection."  We  hear  enough  of  "  natural  selection," 
and  of  how  it  may  be  that  whole  races  live  and  propa- 
gate and  die,  struggling  toward  an  attainment  of  more 
perfect  organization,  to  be  realized  after  they  are  dust 
or  fossil. 

What  of  the  seed  of  life  itself  ? 

What  good  does  it  do  the  mollusk  that  there  is  to  be 
a  vertebrate  by  and  by  ?  or  the  monkey  that  there  are 
men  to  come  ?  Or  men,  in  their  turn,  that  there  are  to 
be  sons  of  God  again  upon  the  earth  when  their  mis- 
takes and  half-developments  are  over? 

What  if  no  life  is  ever  lost?  If  God  giveth  it  a 
body,  —  to  every  seed  its  own,  —  as  it  pleaseth  him, 
over  and  over,  up  and  on? 

Two  things  stand  right  up  in  the  way. 

Deaths  also  ;  over  and  over. 

Forgetfulness. 


"  FOBZINO:*  81 

But  then,  — "  forzino,"    again.      How  far  do  we 

know? 

Only  the  dead  can  tell  what  death  has  been.  It 
may  have  been  —  many  times  —  an  ecstasy. 

Emery  Ann's  "  forzino  "  set  me  out  on  this  quest. 

Pain  only  gets  a  soul  when  it  comes  to  man ;  only 
begins  to  get  something  near  it  when  it  comes  to  the 
orders  nearest  human  in  their  larger  instincts.  To 
other  things  it  is  always  a  surprise,  not  knowledge 
and  reason :  a  surprise  repeated  from  moment  to 
moment,  as  long  as  it  lasts.  And  a  surprise  is  noth- 
ing except  as  you  can  turn  round  and  look  at  it,  or 
expect  another. 

A  dog  or  a  horse  will  cringe  and  howl,  or  quiver 
and  snort  with  the  terror  which  is  the  spiritual  pain, 
when  a  danger  that  can  suggest^  approaches.  A  moth 
will  burn  itself  half  to  cinder,  and  struggle  back  with 
its  last  strength  into  the  flame  again. 

Suffering  that  is  all  of  the  body  may  not  be,  in  our 
way  of  appreciation,  suffering  at  all. 

A  man  knows  what  is  the  matter  with  him.  That  is 
the  trouble.     He  carries  back  the  nerve-report  to  the 


82  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS, 

centre  of  a  grand  and  intense  vitality.  He  has  eaten 
of  the  tree  of  knowledge  that  is  in  the  midst  of  the 
garden.  The  higher  the  civilization  the  greater  the 
dread  of  injury  and  death.  The  Chinaman  and  the 
savage  have  little,  or  none  at  all. 

Instantaneous  pain  is  said  to  be  no  pain.  There  is 
neither  expectation  nor  afterthought.  A  sudden, 
terrible  hurt  benumbs  itself.  It  is  too  swift  and 
strong.  We  do  not  know  what  has  happened  to  us. 
It  is  after  we  begin  to  find  out,  and  the  mind  takes 
part,  —  remembers,  anticipates,  imagines,  compares, 
watches,  —  that  the  agony  begins.  It  is  a  thing  of 
the  spirit. 

It  may  be  that  we  only,  who  can  make  of  it  a  sacra- 
ment, are  baptized  into  the  full  intimacy  of  suffering. 
It  may  be  that  for  any  creature  who  can  approach 
our  knowledge  of  it,  it  is  by  just  so  much,  in  them 
as  in  us,  the  iT-orking  toward  a  "  far  more  exceeding 
glory." 

God  is  merciful.  He  takes  care  of  his  own  mys- 
teries. He  gives  to  nothing  more  than  it  can  bear,  or 
more  than  shall  be  good. 


''FOBZINO."  83 

Perhaps  the  chief  wonder,  after  a  great  physical 
hurt,  is  that  it  had  not  been  harder  to  endure. 

There  are  blessed  laws  of  alleviation ;  bounds  be- 
yond which  are  insensibility  and  rest ;  possibly,  even, 
as  heat  and  cold  at  their  excessive  points  are  one, —  as 
great  joy  is  a  pang,  and  deep  grief  a  strange  blessed- 
ne?5s,  — there  may  be  also  an  agony  to  rapture,  known 
only  to  them  who  are  taken  into  the  mystery.  There 
is  always  circumstance ;  the  special  providing  for 
each  experience,  which  is  never  forgotten  ;  that  which 
makes  us  say  afterward,  "If  it  had  not  been  just  so ; 
if  there  had  been  a  little  more,  or  a  little  different !  " 
It  is  never  more ;  it  is  never  different ;  it  is  always 
just  what  we  can  bear. 

God  is  gracious,  not  to  our  souls  only,  but  to  our 
bodies  ;  "  not  suffering  any  to  be  tempted  "  —  tried, 
proven — "beyond  that  they  are  able;"  but  making 
always  "  some  way  of  escape." 

We  can  leave  it  all  with  Him. 

If  the  "  whole  creation  travaileth  in  pain  togeth- 
er," it  is  surely  "  for  the  glory  which  shall  be  re- 
vealed." 


84  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

But  then,  besides,  the  forgetfuhiess ;  the  bl?.iikj  be- 
hind and  before ! 

If  life  has  climbed  so,  why  should  we  not  lemember 
the  steps? 

Perhaps  we  shall  come  to  it,  when  all  the  glory  is 
revealed.  Perhaps  the  further  we  go,  —  the  more  we 
include,  —  the  further  we  shall  remember  back. 

Meantime,  at  this  moment,  we  do  know  what  noth- 
ing less  than  human  can.  We  can  divine  the  life  that 
is  below  us  ;  all  its  meanings  are  ours.  The  insect  in 
the  sunshine  has,  perhaps,  in  its  own  little  atom  of 
consciousness,  no  more  positive  sensation  of  its  sep- 
arate joy,  than  the  man  has,  looking  on ;  reading  it 
so,  and  bringing  it  back  for  comparison  to  some  sense 
of  his  own,  included  in  his  larger  being.  Somewhere 
in  him  is  just  this  very  pleasantness:  where  did  he 
get  it?     The  insect  knows  nothing  of  his  gladness. 

Somewhere  in  him  —  the  man  —  is  the  flight  and 
freedom  of  the  bird  in  the  air ;  the  cool  delight  of  the 
fish  in  the  sea-depths ;  the  bright,  brisk  busyness  of 
the  squirrel  in  the  still,  green  wood.     lie  knows  it  all. 

Why  does  the  child  love  better  than  anything  tlie 


stories  of  little  lives  like  these ;  the  pretty  fables 
about  dormice  and  lizards,  ants  and  butterflies,  bees 
and  robins  ? 

I  don't  pretend  to  declare  why ;  I  don't  assert  any- 
thing ;  I  only  say,  as  Emery  Ann  does,  —  "  forzino  !  " 
Above,  they  know  us  as  we  know  these.     We  shall 
come,  some  time,  to   know  even   as  we   are   known. 
Then  we   shall  hold  it  —  perhaps  remember  it  —  all. 
I  said  something  of  this  to.  Emery  Ann.     Not  as  I 
have  said  it  here,  but  just  in  the  way  of  common  talk, 
"  You  see,"  I  suggested,  as  to  the  question  of  pain, 
"  everything  isn't  always  as  bad  as  it  seems.     What 
we  have  never  tried  ourselves,  we  cannot  tell  about. 
Doctors  say  that  a  good  deal  that  looks  like  terrible 
suffering  —  spasms,  and  such  things  —  may  be  mere 
muscular  actiou." 

"  That's  very  comfortin'  —  to  the  doctors,"  said 
Emery  Ann.  "  They've  tried  'em,  perhaps.  But  it 
don't  take  a  doctor  to  tell  that  things  show  for  more'n 
they  are.  Why,  bare  ugliness  does.  Everybody  gets 
along  with  their  own  ;  but  I've  noticed  folks,  —  I  don't 
mind  homeliness ,  now,   any  more   than  I  do  kitclicD 


86  PATIENCE  STBONG'8  OUTINGS, 

chairs,  if  they  are  clean  and  whole,  and  set  straight  j 
but  I  can't  bear  faces  that  seem  to  want  clearin'  up, 
—  well,  with  mouths^  sa}^,  that  you'd  think  they'd 
hate  to  keep  their  own  tongues  inside  of.  And  as  to 
noises  and  fuss,  I've  seen  a  piece  of  work  made  over 
takin'  a  nap,  with  jerkin'  and  snorin',  that  you'd  say 
was  fits  if  you'd  never  come  across  it  before.  I  guess 
it's  pretty  near  right,  most  of  it ;  things  are  made 
frightful  that  we'd  better  try  to  keep  clear  of.  At 
any  rate,  we  can't  fix  it  now,  if  it  isn't." 

Emer}^  Ann  is  never  uneasy  about  anything  that  she 
can't  "  fix  ;  "  what  she  can,  she  has  no  peace  of  mind 
with  till  it  is  done.  She  doesn't  fix  her  paragraphs 
though  ;  she  drops  in  her  prepositions  and  her  objec- 
tive cases  just  when  she  happens  to  get  hold  of  them, 
and  her  relative  pronouns  set  up  for  themselves  in 
sentences  of  their  own,  whether  they  ever  had  any 
antecedents  or  not. 


Aunt  Hetty  Maria  has  been  down  to  stay  a  fort- 
night with  us.  She  and  mother  have  been  so  comfort- 
able together. 


"  FOBZINO:*  87 

I  don't  think  there  is  really  anything  nicer  than  old 
ladies  :  two  together,  especially. 

The  white  caps,  and  the  spectacles,  and  the  slow, 
gentle  ways  that  people  get  when  they  are  old,  and 
the  Sabbath-peace  that  they  sit  down  in,  and  the 
neighborliness  of  souls  that  have  lived  so  many  self- 
same years  on  the  earth,  and  that  may  expect  to  begin 
young  again  so  near  together,  —  all  this  that  is  in 
mother's  window,  now,  behind  the  larch  boughs,  is 
such  a  really  beautiful  thing ! 

I  am  afraid  we  are  losing  our  old  ladies  out  of  New 
England,  just  as  we  are  losing  our  peaches  ;  the  finest 
flavor  of  autumn  time.  Nobody  seems  to  realize 
it.  People  are  so  taken  up  with  looking  for  the 
coming  woman,  that  they  forget  all  about  the  going 
one. 

For  that  matter,  we  are  in  danger  of  losing  our 
young  ladies  too.  At  first  they  won't  let  themselves 
be,  any  more  than  at  last  they  will  let  themselves  go, 
as  they  were  meant  to.  So  that  freshness  and  simple- 
ness,  —  gentle  and  beautiful  fading,  —  by  and  hj  there 
will  neither  of  them  be  seen,  if  things  go  on  ;  but  in 


S8  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTmGS. 

their  stead  one  universal,  melancholy  faclge  and 
wrinkle,  from  sixteen  to  sixty. 

Women  used,  at  thirty-five  or  so,  to  put  on  modest, 
delicate,  submissive  little  caps ;  and  then  they  could 
grow  gray  or  bald  under  them  without  a  separate 
agony  for  every  hair ;  now,  wh^n  the  locks  bleach, 
instead  of  being  accepted  and  worn,  in  their  beautiful 
whiteness,  as  the  light  of  heaven  touching  upon  one's 
head,  they  are  Mrs.  S.  A.  Aliened ;  and  when  they 
thin,  —  ah,  worse  contingency  !  —  they  are  deployed 
painfully  and  insufficiently  over  the  needful  space,  and 
a  satire  of  unaccounted-for  abundance  pinned  on  be- 
hind or  atop. 

People  used  to  find  out  ways  of  mellowing  and 
sobering  in  their  dress,  too,  as  the  woods  begin  to  do 
in  September,  and  so  have  their  own  especial  beauty 
as  well  as  the  green  June  hers.  There  loere  things 
once  that  were  "  too  young"  for  middle  age  to  bedizen 
itself  with.  And  there  were  things  also,  just  as  pretty 
in  their  time,  that  young  girls  had  to  grow  to. 

I  won't  say  an3'thing  about  manners ;  they  can't  be 
peeled  off,  or  mucilaged  on  ;  what  the  soul  puts  forth, 


''FOBZmO:*  ,  89 

will  be ;  and  if  it  doesn't  put  forth,  —  well,  we  lose 
our  peaches  an^  our  golden  leaves. 

Here  it  is;    women   may   choose,  —  this   or   that,' 
they  must  choose,  and  take  the  consequences. 

They  may  ripen  their  beautiful  elder  womanhood, 
fair  with  its  quiet  and  content,  noble  and  sweet  with  its 
larger  life  and  loving,  that  gives  us  at  last  the  real, 
dear  old  lady,  and  without  which  the  dear  old  lady 
can  never  be  ;  or  they  may  hold  on  desperately  as  old 
girls,  and  wrinkle  up  just  as  they  are ;  that  way 
makes  the  Mrs.  Skewtons.  You  can't  have  results 
without  processes  ;  you  have  got  to  make  up  your 
mind  deliberately,  when  you  come  to  the  crest-line  of 
life,  in  what  fashion  you  will  go  down  into  the 
years. 

There  is  a  time,  no  doubt,  when  it  seems  sad  and 
hard ;  when  the  path  first  turns,  and  the  eastward 
heaven  of  youth  lies  behind  the  hill ;  when  the  glad 
little  brooks  begin  to  run  the  other  waj^,  instead  of 
leaping  to  meet  you ;  but  go  on,  like  one  of  God's 
women ;  it  shall  be  an  easy  and  tender  slope  under 
your  feet ;  and  the  lowering  sun  shall  shine  upon  your 


90  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINaS. 

steadfast  face  to  glorify  it,  and  at  the  foot  is  the 
broad,  sweet  valley,  and  the  river  of  your  full,  deep 
peace. 

There  is  where  my  dear  little  mother  has  helped  me 
so.  It  is  beautiful  going  on  just  after  her.  And 
when  I  sit  and  look  at  the  two  there  in  her  window, 
with  their  work  and  their  caps  and  their  cosiness, 
and  hear  them  say  to  each  other  what  a  little 
while  ago  it  seems,  —  the  time  before  their  lives  began 
to  run  apart,  —  it  is  an  outing  that  I  can't  get  any 
othei  way  ;  a  reaching  on,  by  something  like  heaven's 
own  counting,  over  the  years,  to  the  time  when  noth- 
ing shall  seem  far  back  or  away,  or  tedious  to  have 
been  borne ;  and  heaven  itself  shall  be  the  nearest 
of  all. 

I  read  them  my  thinkings  about  Pain  and  Change, 
when  I  had  written  them  down. 

"  Yes,"  said  Aunt  Hetty  Maria.  "  If  only  God 
made  all  the  pain,  and  gave  it  to  us.  But  what  about 
the  pains  we  have  earned  f    The  pains  of  our  sins  ? 

Mother  spoke  out,  then ;  quick,  before  I  could. 

"WJay,  Hetty  Maria,  the  thief  got  that  answered 


'^FOBZINO:'  •  91 

for  us.  And  the  Lord  gave  him  part  of  his  own 
peace,  and  promised  him  Paradise." 

The  cross  of  Love  is  close  beside  the  cross  of  Sin. 

Jesus  hung  between  the  malefactors. 

They  "  knew  not  what  they  did ; "  God  knew,  and 
meant  it  so. 


92  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 


VIII. 

INTO   DARK   CLOSETS   AND   NEIGHBOR-HOUSES. 

"Don't  ever  do  that,"  said  Aunt  Hetty  Maria. 
"  Carry  your  candle  as  straight  as  you  (5an,  but  never 
go  prowling  back  into  dark  closets  to  look  after  mis- 
chief that  you  haven't  done." 

"  It's  clear  fidget,  I  know,"  said  mother ;  "  but  I've 
done  it  many  a  time  myself." 

I  had  been  looking  for  something  in  the  little  clothes- 
room.  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  my  candle  hadn't 
snapped  while  I  was  there,  and  that  I  hadn't  held  it 
near  anj^thing ;  and  yet,  after  I  brought  it  back  to 
mother's  room,  and  gave  her  the  roll  of  linen  she 
wanted,  I  went  quietly  to  the  closet  again,  and  shut 
myself  in,  in  the  dark,  and  looked.  When  I  came 
back  the  second  time  and  sat  down,  Aunt  Hetty 
Maria  said  that. 

"Don't  do  it,"  she  repeated.     "  Clear  fidget  is  the 


DABR  CLOSETS  AND  NEIGHBOB-HOUSES.     93 

worst  thing  you  can  give  up  to.  It'll  come  back  at 
times  when  j^ou  can'^  satisfy  yoiu-self.  It's  a  way  you 
get  into,  and  it'll  follow  you  up.  Don't  get  out  of  bed 
to  see  if  you  have  locked  the  door  when  you  know 
there  isn't  one  chance  in  a  hundred  that  you  haven't. 
Don't  pull  your  letter  open  to  see  if  the  money  is  safe 
and  right,  when  you  know  yo\x  had  it  in  your  hand  to 
put  in  and  it  can't  be  anywhere  else.  Don't  keep 
making  crazy  dives  into  your  pocket  and  bags,  to  see 
if  your  purse  and  your  keys  are  there,  after  you've 
started  on  your  journey,  and  you  can't  help  it  if  they 
aint.  It's  an  awful  habit,  I  tell  you.  You'll  go 
back  into  actions  and  reasons  and  happenings,  just  so  ; 
into  trouble,  and  sickness,  and  death  too.  Looking 
after  what  never  was  in  'em ;  and  doubting  what  you 
know  there  certainly  was.  I  tell  you,  for  I  know." 
Aunt  Hetty  Maria  had  had  troubles  in  her  life,  not- 
withstanding the  silk  gown  and  the  white  caps,  and 
the  looking-up-to  of  all  Dearwood.  There  were  things 
she  wasn't  sure  she  hadn't  made  mistakes  in,  though 
she  was  a  woman  who  had  always  tried  thoroughly  to 
do  her  duty.     Perhaps  in  some  other  place  I  shall  say 


94  PATIENCE  STBONQ'S  OUTINGS. 

more  of  what  I  know  about  it.  I  understood  enough 
about  it  then,  to  feel  that  she  spoke  out  of  a  deep 
place,  and  that  the  strong  sense  that  advised  me 
against  the  "  clear  fidgets  "  had  had  sore  battles  to 
fight  against  them,  before  it  stood  up  in  her  so,  com- 
manding them  all  down. 

"  If  I  had  my  life  to  live  over  again,  there's  no  rule 
I'd  lay  down  for  myself  firmer.  And  that's  why  I 
speak  to   you." 

As  if  I  had  my  life  to  live  —  at  thirty-eight ! 

And,  yet —  as  if  I  hadn't ! 

I  think,  sometimes,  we  don't  any  of  us  find  out  how 
to  live  till  we  have  pretty  well  used  up  —  spoiled, 
perhaps — one  life. 

Did  anybody  ever  knit  a  perfect  stocking,  right  ofi*, 
at  the  first  learning  ?  Isn't  the  first  experiment  a  tan- 
gle, more  or  less,  of  dropped  stitches,  run  all  through, 
or  twisted  in  the  picking  up  ;  of  puckers  and  stretches, 
— unpremeditated  and  misplaced  widenings  out  and 
narrowings  in? 

Aren't  there  patient  eyes  over  the  needles,  perhaps, 
m  our  life-learnings  ?    Is  all  the  yarn  spoiled  in  con- 


DAUK  CLOSETS  AND  KEIGHBOB-HOUSES.      95 

quering  the  stitch?  Are  we  to  wear  our  first  poor 
work,  inevitably  and  always?  Or  when,  out  of  the 
knowledge  gained  at  it,  we  can  accomplish  a  better, 
shall  it  not  be  given  us  to  do  and  to  possess,  and  the 
old  puckers  be  quietly  unravelled  for  us  and  laid  away 
out  of  our  sight? 

If  mother  and  Aunt  Hetty  Maria  give  me  loving  and 
watchful  counsel  at  thirty-eight,  looking  upon  all  these 
years  of  mine  as  a  mere  "  setting  up,"  how  will  the 
good  angels,  out  of  their  deep  eternity  and  its  holy 
wisdoms,  look  at  theirs? 

The  very  calm  and  beauty  that  sits  upon  them  now, 
—  is  it  not  the  smoothing  out  for  a  fair  and  glad  be- 
ginning again  ? 

"  Don't  go  back  into  the  dark  closets  !  " 

It  was  a  dear,  bright  word  to  me.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
word  that  will  be  said  to  us  in  heaven,  when  we  come 
out  into  the  light  there  that  is  fulfilling  and  absolving 
love.  Perhaps  we  shall  be  comforted  and  forgiven 
beyond  what  we  can  think  or  hope. 

Rose  Noble  came  in  this  morning. 


96  PATIEKCE  STTiONG'S  OUTmGS. 

I  thiak  it  is  one  of  the  comforts  of  not  being  very 
rich  people,  that  your  friends  talk  out  to  you  more,  of 
any  little  plans  or  perplexities  they  may  have,  and 
with  which  money,  as  the  world  runs,  must  necessarily 
have  so  much  to  do. 

Whether  the  old  dress  is  worth  making  over ;  what 
sort  of  carpet  would  turn  out  the  best  and  cheapest ; 
or,  if  the  dress  is  quite  worn  out,  or  the  carpet  can't  be 
had,  —  the  want  and  the  way  to  bear  it.  They  will 
speak  of  these  things,  which  are  the  day's  burden  or 
interest,  sure  of  your  sympathy ;  sure,  also,  that  they 
can,  by  no  distant  possibility,  be  seeming  to  dream  of 
anything  else.  It  is  the  comfort  the  poor  and  the 
moderately  well-off  have  together  ;  and  which  the  rich, 
busy  only  with  spending,  or  suspicious  of  wishfulness, 
are  shut  out  from. 

I  know  so  much  about  Rose  Noble  and  her  mother ; 
it  is  quite  as  if  their  lives  were  added  on  to  mine. 
Lives  that  open  into  €ach  other  so  are  like  houses  with 
a  door  between.  . 

Isn't  that  an  outing? 

I  think,  all  up  and  down  the  heavenly  streets,  they 


DABK  CLOSj^'TS  AND  NEIGHBOR-HOUSES.     97 

build  their  dwellings  so.  I  think,  from  God  unto  "  the 
least  of  these,"  spirits  stand  open,  one  to  another,  and 
world  to  world.  "I  am  the  Door,"  says  the  Lord. 
"By  me  ye  shall  go  in  and  out  and  find  pasture." 
"  That  they  also  may  be  one  in  us,  as  I  in  thee,  and 
thou  in  me." 

I  am  glad  to  think  we  can  begin  it  here. 

I  know  all  about  them, — the  Nobles;  their  plans 
and  their  makings  out ;  what  Rose  has  done,  and  what 
she  has  laid  out  for  herself  to  do ;  and  what  the  hope 
of  her  life  is,  after  that. 

The  hope  began  when  she  was  teaching  school  in 
western  Ohio.  She  met  Robert  Haile  there,  a  man 
working  with  an  object  in  his  life  as  well ;  a  debt  to 
pay  back  before  he  can  begin  to  count  for  himself. 
When  he  can  do  that,  he  will  not  be  afraid  to  take  a 
wife  and  count  for  her  also. 

I  said  I  knew  all'  about  Rose.  That  was  true ;  as  to 
Robert,  I  don't  know  all ;  not  quite  all  that  she  does ; 
and  there  is  a  something  which  Rose  hsrself  does  not 
fully  know  yet,  but  fcJI*  which  she  waits  till  he  shall 
have  it  all  to  tell.     He  is  thirty  years  old,  and  it  is  a 


98  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

story  of  his  early  j^outh.  A  dark  closet,  perhaps, 
where  he  did  leave  somethiug  smouldering.  But  she  is 
not  afraid.     She  knows  him  as  he  is. 

Rose  has  kept  school  ever  since  she  was  sixteen 
years  old ;  what  she  has  determined  to  do  before  she 
ever  marries  or  "  counts  up  "  in  any  way  for  herself,  is 
to  buy  the  little  house  for  her  mother  that  they  live  in 
now.  She  has  got  three  hundred  dollars  more  to  save 
to  do  it.  That  doesn't  seem  much  towards  the  price 
of  a  house,  but  it  is  a  little  one,  and  she  has  saved  it 
all  by  fifties  and  hundreds,  out  of  her  school-keeping, 
from  3^ear  to  year.  In  the  mean  while  they  have  to 
live ;  and  things  wear  out ;  and  Rose  won't  let  them 
grow  too  shabb}^,  to  spoil  so  the  pretty  idea  of  the 
home  she  is  working  to  keep  for  good  and  all. 

So  it  was  the  sittiug-room  carpet  that  was  worrying 
her  now. 

"  They  are  so  dear,  you  see.  It  will  cost  forty-five 
dollars.  I  don't  talk  to  mother  about  it ;  I've  come  to 
you.  If  I  do  make  up  my  mind  to  get  it,  it  must  seem 
eas3^,  or  she  wouldn't*  take  arfj^  comfort  in  it.  Pa- 
♦^ience,  I  wonder  if  there's  always  a  prophecy  in  names! 


DABK  CLOSETS  AND  NEiaHB OB- HOUSES,     99 

There  certainly  was  in  yours ;  and  in  Emery  Ann's ; 
how  do  you  suppose  mine  happened  ?  " 

"  Rose  —  Noble,"  I  said,  slowly  ;  "  why  sJiouldn't  it 
have  happened  ?  " 

I  thought  of  her  fresh,  sweet  nature,  and  of  the 
something  deep  and  grand  there  is  in  it  also,  to  which 
the  freshness  and  sweetness  are  a  mere  outward  add- 
ing. The  born,  name,  and  the  given  name ;  they  are 
precisely  as  they  should  be. 

"  It  makes  you  think  of  the  golden  old  times,"  said 
Rose.  "  Of  the  full  pouches,  and  the  princely  givings. 
I  wish  there  were  a  magic  in  my  name.  I  wish  when- 
ever it  were  spoken  a  real  rose-noble  might  drop  down. 
Then  I  shouldn't  have  to  count  yards  and  shillings. 
Then,  you  see,  —  0  Patience,  it  might  be  nearly  here, 
the  time  we're  waiting  for  !  " 

I  saw  that  something  more  than  common  was  on 
Rose  s  mind. 

I  didn't  want  to  ask  ;  and  I  didn't  want  to  interrupt, 
if  she  chose  to  say  more ;  so  I  sat  silent. 

"  He  might  come  this  fall ;  Jiis  work  is  nearly  done. 
I  think  he  will  come.    But  I  can't  possibly  be  ready 


100  PATIENCE  STBONG'8  OUTINGS, 

with  my  part.  I  must  leave  mother  and  Katie  com- 
fortable, and  you  see  I  do  want  lots  of  little  things 

myself,  —  besides  the  big  ones.  Patience,  —  if  it's 
one  ridiculous  thing  more  than  another,  just  this  min- 
ute, —  I'm  such  a  goose,  — it's  —  a  band  of  back  hair ! " 

I  didn't  think  Rose  was  a  goose. 

I  looked  at  her  pretty  head,  with  its  bright  hair,  not 
very  long,  —  she  had  had  a  fever  from  over- work  a  year 
and  a  half  ago,  and  it  had  been  cut  short,  —  and  so 
fine  that  its  real  thickness  hardly  told  ;  so  that  although 
when  she  brushed  it  out  it  was  light  and  full  and  shin- 
ing, and  looked  ever  so  much,  it  would  compress  itself 
with  the  least  little  twist,  like  a  skein  of  floss,  and 
show  for  nothing. 

I  didn't  blame  her  a  bit,  when  other  girls  were  wear- 
ing whole  manufactures  of  hair-work  that  hardly  let 
the  original  foundation  betray  itself  at  all,  as  to  what 
it  was  or  was  not,  for  wishing  just  for  a  little  more  like 
hers,  to  make  the  story  good,  as  it  was  really  meant  to 
be,  and  might  be,  by  and  by.  And  Dr.  Haile  coming 
before  long,  at  least  to  see  her.' 

And  yet  I  do,  on  principle,  hate  false  hair. 


J    J  3 

1     1    3        ■> 


DABK  CLOSETS  AND  NEIGHBOB-HOUSES.    101 

Only,  it  is  a  thing  to  wear  now,  as  much  as  caps  or 
bonnets  ;  and  everybody  knows.  Indeed,  you  have  to 
wear  it  instead  of  bonnets,  or  else  look  so  scooped  out. 
I  don't  know  where  the  line  is.  A  great  deal  is  bad 
and  frivolous  and  extravagant  and  worldly-minded ; 
but  a  little,  — just  what  Rose  Noble  wanted  to  make 
her  head  graceful  and  pretty,  somewhat  after  the  taste 
of  the  time,  —  well,  I  give  it  up,  as  I  have  to  give  up 
^^  many  puzzles  ;  things  that  begin  blamelessly  enough, 
but  end  all  wrong,  and  carry  the  world  by  the  ears 
into  all  sorts  of  snarls. 

Any  way,  I  don't  think  Rose  Noble  was  so  very 
silly.     And  I  told  her  so. 

But  then,  she  couldn't  spend  ten  dollars  for  it. 
That  ended  the  matter. 

It  was  only  a  wish,  given  up  to  stronger  and  dearer 
claims.  If  that  were  the  settling  of  such  points, 
always !  I  suppose  in  that  case,  though,  there  would 
be  precious  little  back  hair  worn,  except  what  grew. 
And  we  should  all  look  well  enough.      • 

I  think,  very  likely,  there  are  moral  questions  that 
can't  be  generalized.     Special  decisions  must  make  up 


e    c 
c       c 

C         f 


102  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS, 

the  broad  result  and  answer.  If  everybody  marks 
their  own  inch,  the  line  will  be  drawn  all  round  the 
world.  Up  and  down,  perhaps,  like  an  isothermal ; 
but  it  will  be  there,  as  true  as  conscience  or  science 
can  make  it. 

That  reminds  me.  I  was  thinking  of  that  word, 
"  conscience,"  the  other  day.  Of  the  "  con  "  of  it. 
"  Together."     "  With."    Together  with  whom  ?    What 

makes  conscience  different  from  other  knowing  ?    What 

* 
but  God's  knowledge  joined  to  ours?     The  very  con- 
tact of  the  human  and  Divine  ? 

Rose  Noble  laughed,  with  a  tear  in  her  eye,  at  her 
own  silliness ;  but  it  was  very  pathetic  to  me.  So 
many  "  little  things, — besides  the  big  ones,"  were 
wanting  in  her  young  life,  of  which  other  careless  lives 
were  full. 

I  was  quite  sad  about  it  after  she  had  gone.  I  sat 
still  half  an  hour,  thinking  it  over -and  over.  Some 
people  had  aunts  and  uncles,  if  not  fathers  and  moth- 
ers, who  could  give  them  the  little  embellishments 
and  opportunities  of  3^outh.  Even  I,  more  than  half 
as  old  again,  and  past  caring  for  much,  of  these  out- 


DABK  CLOSETS  AND  NEIGHBOR-HOUSES.     103 

side  things,  Lad  Eliphalet  and  Gertrude  to  be 
tlioughtful  for  me  when  it  wouldn't  do  for  me  to  be 
thoughtful  or  wishful  for  myself ;  to  give  me  a  new  pin 
at  Christmas,  and  a  silk  dress  on  a  birthday,  or  when 
they  went  shopping  in  New  York  ;  even  to  ask  me  — 
if  I  hadn't  broken  my  bones  and  blundered  out  of  it  — 
to  go  to  Europe  with  them. 

I  could  think  of  so  many  people  who  wanted  what 
the}'  couldn't  possibly  get,  and  nobody  would  be  likely 
to  give  them  as  long  as  they  lived.  Mrs.  Shreve,  who 
was  "  worr3ing  through  the  summer"  with  an  old 
cooking-stove  that  spoiled  all  her  cake,  and  wouldn't 
heat  her  flat-irons  ;  Mrs.  Noble  and  Rose,  wanting  to 
carpet  their  sitting-room  and  put  new  curtains  in  the 
best  bedroom  ;  and  obliged  to  choose  between  the-iwo  ; 
people  poorer  than  these,  with  real  suffering  wants,  all 
around  us  ;  oh,  what  a  wanting  world  it  was ! 

I  didn't  know  as  outings  into  such  a  world,  unless 
one  could  go  with  Haroun  Al  Easchid  power,  were 
worth  having,  after  all. 

All  at  once,  I  caught  myself  up. 

"  I  never  shall  liave  a  better  chance ! "  I  said,  out 


104  PATIENCE  STUONG'S  OUTINGS. 

loud.  "  Unless  —  something  should  happen  that  would 
take  the  heart  wholly  out  of  everything.  I  truly 
believe  I'm  just  about  down-hearted  enough." 

And  so  I  went  and  got  the  packet,  which  I  had 
fairly  forgotten  since  I  had  been  able  to  be  about  the 
house. 

It  wasn't  much  to  open  ;  it  was  soon  untied. 

A  little  note  from  Eliphalet,  and  —  two  little  com- 
mon blue-covered  books. 

An  account,  opened  at  the  Third  National  Bank  of 
Boston,  with  a  deposit  of  three  thousand  dollars  to  the 
credit  of  Patience  Strong  ! 

And  a  cheque-book,  to  draw  the  money  out  with. 


INTO  THE  MIDDLES.  105 


IX. 


INTO   THE    MIDDLES. 

That  was  nice  of  Eliphalet.  And  so  knowing.  So 
much  better  than  a  certificate  of  stock,  to  draw  a  div- 
idend on  twice  a  year,  and  never  feel  the  full  three 
thousand  dollars'  worth  of  abundance  unless  I  should 
happen  to  live  some  eight  or  ten  years  longer,  be 
lucky  in  my  shares,  and  keep  a  running  account  in  my 
head,  in  a  "  House  that  Jack  built "  fashion,  of  the 
extra  good  it  had  done  me.  It  was  as  much  better  as 
fifty  coppers,  all  one's  own,  to  spend,  used  to  be  than 
the  rare  silver  half  dollar  given  to  "  lay  by."  It  was 
a  clear  piece  of  citron,  to  eat  right  up,  instead  of  wait- 
ing for  it  in  little  bits,  cooked  and  spoiled,  in  the  cake. 
It  is  so  delightful,  once  in  a  while,  not  to  mind  the 
proper  way,  or  be  wise  and  prudent,  but  to  be  as  fool- 
ish and  happy  and  unproper  as  one  pleases.  Eliphalet 
remembers  old  times,  and  knows  that  we  don't  out- 


106  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS. 

grow,  but  only  overgrow,  many  things.  Especially 
we  women. 

"  It  would  have  cost  me  that,  and  more,"  —  the  trip 
to  Europe  for  which  I  substituted  my  trip  down  the 
trammel  staircase,  —  so  he  wrote  in  his  note.  "  There- 
fore, do  just  what  you  like  with  it.  Invest  it,  come 
out  to  Europe  after  us,  or  spend  it  all  in  gimp  and 
sugar-plums." 

Now^  then,  couldn't  I  have  outings? 

Could  I,  though?  Just  where  I  most  wanted  to 
go?  Into  wishes  and  wants,  —  iiito  hopes  and  troubles? 
Into  Mrs.  Shreve's  kitchen,  with  a  new  Perfect  Rap- 
ture cooking-stove  and  a  man  to  set  it  up?  Into  Mrs. 
Noble's  parlor  and  bedroom,  with  carpet  and  curtains? 

When  I  came  to  think  of  it,  I'd  got  the  lever,  but  I 
wasn't  so  sure  of  a  place  to  plant  it,  —  without  hurting 
anybody. 

Not  right  down  on  an}'  quick,  tender  pride,  or  del- 
icate self-respect  and  inde^teudence.  That  wouldn't 
do. 

I  must  take  care  that  my  dollars  didn't  ge^  iji  my 
way. 


INTO    THE  CUDDLES.  107 

First,  I  made  mother  solemnly  promise  never  to 
tell,  —  until  I  did. 

Then  I  laid  awake  the  best  part  of  three  nights, 
plotting  and  planning.  Taking  my  share  of  the 
world's  skein  to  unravel ;  the  how  to  make  ends  meet. 
"VYhat  everything  and  every  soul  is  busy  about,  one 
way  and  another,  from  the  least  to  tlie  Highest ; 
from  the  bringing  together  of  the  grub  and  the  green 
leaf  to  the  lifting  of  men's  souls  up  into  the  Heart  of 
God. 

There  is  this  and  that ;  cotton  on  one  side  of  the 
w^orld,  machines  on  the  other,  —  coffee  there,  dry 
goods  and  iron  and  Yankee  notions  here  ;  men,  women 
and  children  there,  starved  and  overcrowded,  —  w^ork 
and  wide  lands  out  here,  and  yonder. 

There  are  the  homely  "  two  ends,  "  income  and  out- 
go ;  there  is  money  in  pockets,  want  in  bodies  and 
souls;  there  is  a  word  to  say,  and  an  ear  straining 
to  hear  it ;  the  world  is  running  round  and  round.  It 
is  in  great  and  small,  grave  and  grotesque  ;  the  kitten 
after  its  own  tail ;  the  baby  trying  to  get  its  big  toe 
into  its  mouth  ;  the  mystic  symbol  of  the  serpent ;  the 


108  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS, 

planet  wheSing  round  the  sun  ;  the  fiery  beauty  of  the 
zodiac. 

I  think,  what  with  planning  and  sleepiness,  I  was  a 
little  feverish  and  confused  perhaps ;  all  these  things 
ran  through  my  head  in  such  curious  associations. 

My  little  bit  was  onl}^  this,  —  our  side  of  the  way 
and  over  across ;  I  and  my  bank-book  here ;  the 
Shreves  and  the  Nobles,  and  their  worries  and  puzzles 
there.     How  should  I  get  the  two  together? 

I  felt  myself  dreadfully  outside,  all  at  once,  with  my 
three  thousand  dollars.  How  should  I  get  in,  —  I 
who  thought  at  first  I  had  got  tickets  for  everywhere  ? 
Finally,  and  in  the  first  place,  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  I  must  learn  German.  Rose  Noble  knew  it,  and 
I  didn't. 

Out  under  the  beeches  in  the  old  garden,  while  the 
summer  weather  lasted ;  while  Rose's  school  had  long 
vacation,  and  she  was  busy  making  pretty  nightgowns 
and  under-robings.  I  could  help  her  whip  and  hem, 
while  I  grated  consonants  between  my  tonsils,  and 
learned  long  sentences  in  which  the  nouns  were  centi- 
pedes and  the  verbs  were  nobody  knows  where.     And 


INTO   THE  MIDDLES.  109 

over  the  German  and  our  needlework,  we  should  grow 
intimate,— more  intimate  than  ever, — and  I  should  find 
some  crafty  and  blessed  way  of  "putting  it,"  —  the 
rest  of  it,  the  little  things  and  the  big  thi-ngs,  bit  by 
bit,  —  that  even  pride  could  not  resist ;  that,  in  truth, 
it  could  have  nothing  whatever,  by  any  pretence,  to  do 
with.  It  would  be  like  a  game  of  "  solitaire,"  — -  "  pa- 
tience," as  they  call  it  in  the  English  novels  ;  laying  this 
card  carefully  on  that,  looking  through  and  through  - 
the  position,  catching  my  chances  and  my  sequences, 
and  making  it  all  out  gloriously  at  last,  with  my  king 
and  queen  at  top. 

"  I  feel  as  if  it  was  my  story,"  I  said  to  mother,  who 
came  into  my  room  "  visiting." 

I  wonder  if  anybody  else  has  that  way  of  mother's 
of  talking  about  "  visiting  "  ?  • 

She  comes  in  between  her  busy  times,  —  while  the 
cake  is  baking,  perhaps,  or  Emery  Ann  is  -sweeping 
her  room,  or  in  the  odd  minutes  before  dinner,  or  the 
twilight  after  tea,  —  and  she  sits  down  and  says  she 
has  come  to  "  visit  a  little  "  with  me. 

They  had  that  way  at  Bearwood,  —  the  sisters  iD 


110  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS. 

the  old  house ;  Aunt  Hetty  Maria  has  it  too ;  but  it 
doesn't  sound  so  sweet  from  anybody  as  from  mother. 
She  comes  so  close .  and  so  kindly ;  her  visiting  is 
right  into  your  thoughts  and  your  heart.  It  makes 
me  think  of  the  -'gentle  visitings"  I  remember  in 
some  old  hymn.  I  think  that  if  she  were  gone  away 
out  of  the  bod}^  she  would  still  come  and  visit  me  so. 

"  Well,  it  is  your  stor}^,"  she  said  to  me  in  repl3^ 
*' You're  living  right  into  it.  You're  putting  yourself 
into  the  middl(3  of  it.  That's  all  that  makes  anything 
our  stor3^  The  same  stor}^  would  be  anybody's  else 
if  they  could  stand  where  we  do  to  look  at  it.  It's 
the  pleasantness  of  books,  and  —  " 

"In  the  middle,  —  yes."  I  int'^rrupted  mother. 
The  word  struck  me.  "  God  is  in  the  middle.  Every- 
body's story  is  his." 

"Audit's  the  'joy'  we  '  enter  into,'"  said  mother, 
finishing  her  sentence,  and  weaving  in  her  word  and 
thought  with  mine.     "  Isn't  it?  " 

"  Loving  the  neighbor  as  one's  self.  The  fulfilling 
of  the  whole  law ;  the  perfect  rounding  of  the  circle. 
Standing  in  the  middle,  beside  God.     Self  is  only  the 


INTO   THE  MIDDLES.  Ill 

centre-point.  We  can  put  it  where  we  please.  There 
was  '  an  angel  standing  in  the  sun.' " 

Mother  reached  over  and  took  up  the  Bible  that  was 
on  my  little  table. 

"  I  wanted  to  see,"  she  said,  pleasantly,  after  she 
had  found  the  place.  "  Why,  it's  a  kind  of  a  wonder, 
child !  It  comes  like  what  we  were  sa3dng."  And 
then  she  read  :. — 

"  '  He  cried  out  with  a  loud  voice,  saying  to  all  the 
fowls  that  fly  in  the  midst  of  heaven,  Come  and  gather 
yourselves  together  unto  the  supper  of  the  great  God.' 
It  fits  right  in.  Patience." 

"It  always  does  come  so,  mother.  One  part  is 
never  put  into  my  head,  that  the  other  doesn't  fit  right 
on,  and  tell  more.  It  fits  to  the  old  things  too.  It 
shows  the  pattern  they  were  all  cut  out  to.  '  The 
fowls  that  fly  in  the  midst  of  heaven.'  The  living 
knowledges  and  thoughts  that  go  and  come  all  through 
the  heavens  and  between  all  souls.  The  bird-mean- 
ing.    You  remember,  mother  ?  " 

"  That  was  the  supper  they  couldn't  come  to  who 
were  taken  up  with  their  own  ;  their  little  bits  of  land, 


112  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS. 

and  their  wives,  and  their  merchandise.  But  out  of 
the  highways  and  hedges  they  came.  Those  who  had 
nothing.     It's  the  rich  that  can  '  hardly  enter  in.' " 

"  If  they're  in  the  '  middle '  of  nothing  but  their 
riches.  Or  their  plans,  or  their  pleasures,  or  their  clev- 
erness, or  their  prettiness.  Yes,  it's  the  middle  that 
signifies.  If  j^ou're  in  the  wrong  middle,  move  right 
out  of  it ;  find  a  new  one  ;  they're  all  around  ;  ever}^- 
thing  is  a  middle." 

I  went  on,  thinking  it  out  so,  and  brushing  my  hair. 
Mother  had  come  visiting  while  I  was  getting  ready 
for  bed.  .They  are  dear  little  visiting  times  then; 
then,  and  at  the  early  morning,  when  we  are  beginning 
new  together,  and  the  first  thing  is  to  find  each  other 
for  a  minute.  It  has  been  so  ever  since  I  was  a  little 
child.  I  believe  it  will  be  so  when  we  begin  new  to- 
gether by  and  b}^  The  first  thing  will  be  to  find  each 
other,  —  to  look  in  each  other's  morning  faces.  Ever}'- 
thlng  is  a  sign,  and  God  will  make  it  all  come  true. 


INTO  THE  SUN8HINJE,  113 


X. 


INTO   THE   SUNSHINE. 

It  was  so  lovely  this  morning  that  we  could  not  be 
content  even  under  the  old  beeches.  It  was,  a  sort  of 
a  truant  day.  Everything  seemed  to  say,  "  Out ! 
farther !  "  One  could  rest  in  nothing,  there  was  so 
much  all  about  and  beyond.  The  beauty  was  like  a 
field  of  pasture  fruit ;  it  was  impossible  to  stop  to 
pick,  it  spread  so  wide  to  lure  you  on.  The  whole 
world  was  greedy  with  gladness.  It  was  like  the  poor- 
house  boy, — only  from  very  fulness,  not  denial, — 
sighing  to  itself  and  forth  into  the  broad  air  that  held 
it  warm  :   "  More  !  more  !  " 

The  little  grasses  and  late  clovers ;  the  leaves, 
crisp  and  clean  with  dews  and  searching  chemistries 

of  light,  and  all  alert  with  the  spring  that  is  in  living 

> 

things ;  the  tall,  lithe  stems  of  the  young  trees,  and 
the  trunks  of  old  ones  mighty  with  their  longer  glad 


114  PATIENCE  8TB0NG'8  OUTINGS. 

aspiring  that  was  turned  to  solid  strength ;  the  glis- 
tening, restless  clouds,  the  little  winds  of  heaven  like 
happy  breaths,  —  everything  panted  and  stirred  and 
uplifted  itself  with  an  ecstasy  that  was  at  once  replete 
and  insatiate.  The  globe  itself  seemed  to  revel  in 
blue  space.  It  must  needs  roll  on.  One  could  almost 
feel  how  it  would  be  impossible  to  lie  so  at  a  still  point 
of  bliss.     The  glad,  golden  orbit  was  accounted  for. 

Down  the  lane,  the  wild  grape-vines  had  heaped  up 
banks  of  living  green  over  the  low,  old  wall ;  the 
creepers  tossed  their  grace  and  glory  from  tree  to 
tree ;  the  clematis  was  cloudy-white  with  blossom ; 
the  ferns  were  plumy  and  fragrant  in  every  little 
angle ;  and  the  dear  little  life  everlasting,  with  its 
delicate,  mystical  odor,  was  plenty  under  foot.  The 
blackberries  were  full  and  sweet  with  their  dark  wine, 
and  the  scent  of  the  pines  and  the  cedars  came  up  to 
meet  you  from  the  wood. 

"  We  must  go  down  there,"  said  Rose. 

"  Shall  we  stop  anywhere  ?"  said  I.  "  It's  a  day  to 
go  and  seek  a  summer-fortune." 

So  I  picked  up  "Ann"  and  the  " Lesebuch,"  aad 


INTO   THE  SUNSHINE.  115 

we  went  down.  Down  into  the  cool  and  damp  by  the 
brown  brook ;  over  and  up,  into  the  spic}^  stillness  of 
the  evergreen  pasture ;  close  in,  among  the  cedars, 
against  the  "  shadow  of  the  great  rock." 

The  path  brought  up  here  ;  or  we  might  have  walked 
on  until,  —  well,  at  least  until  some  dusty  turnpike 
stopped  us.  The  rock  was  better.  It  was  the  best 
thing  about  this  lane  and  wood-path  that  it  had  a 
natural  pause  and  end.  I  like  an  upshot.  Else  you 
keep  on,  —  with  many  other  things  as  well  as  green 
lanes,  —  till  the  turnpike  runs  across,  and  the  green 
wood  shows  its  limits,  and  the  beauty  is  all  over. 

I  said  a  bit  by  heart,  out'  of  the  "  Lesebuch." 
"Abraham  baiite  eiuen  altar."  And  I  declined  the 
dreadful  little  German  article  that  stickles  so  for  all 
its  cases  like  any  grown-up,  significant  word.  And 
then  Rose  told  me  a  little  about  substantive  declen- 
sions. 

I  began  to  see  the  fog.  I  knew  I  had  not  got  into 
it,  so  I  held  my  peace.  But  I  saw  it  was  coming. 
That  is  the  reason  it  is  so  much  harder  for  grown 
people  to  learn  a  language,  or   any  new   thing.     A 


116  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

child  just  takes  the  one  step  set  for  him,  never  count- 
ing on,  or  thinking  how  many  more  there  may  be,  or 
what  they  have  to  do  with  each  other.  We  grown-up 
simpletons  anticipate,  analyze,  and  try  to  get  hold  of 
the  theory,  and  muddle  our  brains.  Therefore,  also, 
we  must  become  "  as  little  children,"  to  learn  the 
kingdom  of  heaven. 

"  I'm  not  discouraged  yet,  Rose ;  but  I  wish  to  tell 
you  that  I  know  it's  there." 

"  What,  discouragement  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  the  climax  of  it ;  there's  always  a  climax  of 
discouragement  in  everything.  When  you  get  into 
the  thick  of  it,  and  can't  see  how,  or  if  ever,  j^ou're 
coming  out.  It's  in  a  poem,  or  a  story,  or  a  sermon, 
or  a  painting,  or  a  piece  of  music,  or  a  dress-fitting, 
or  a  house-cleaning,  or  a  living.  It's  always  there ; 
and  you've  got  to  run  against  it,  and  have  your  tussle 
with  it.  Then,  all  at  once,  if  you're  blessed,  3^ou 
come  out  of  it,  into  the  clear  daylight,  and  wonder 
where  the  dark  was.  It's  the  miracle  worked  in  every- 
thing. It's  the  opening  to  the  knocking.  It's  the 
'  borning,'  as  the  little  child  said." 


INYO  THE  SUNSHINE.  117 

"  That's  a  very  true  thing,  Patience.  I'm  glad 
you've  said  it.  Only  —  I  can't  help  wondering,  once 
in  a  while,  if  some  people  don't  have  to  live  all  their 
lives  in  a  climax." 

"  I  never  heard  of  but  one  person  who  did,"  said  I, 
"  and  that  was  Mr.  Micawber.  And  you  know  how  it 
was  disposed  of,  simply  enough,  for  him.  '  If  he  is 
going  to  be  continually  arrested,  his  friends  have  just 
got  to  be  continually  bailing  him  out,'  says  Aunt 
Betsy.  Dickens  put  it  in  extreme,  as  his  way  is,  but 
he  puts  the  very  doctrine  of  heaven  into  it,  —  which  is 
also  his  way." 

"  Rose,"  I  began  again,  after  a  minute  or  two,  "  I 
wish  you  and  I  had  been  children  together ;  or  else 
that  you  were  child  enough  now  to  believe  in  a  fairy 
«tory." 

"Why?"  asked  Rose. 

*'  Because  then  we  should  have  got  used  to  spend- 
ing our  coppers  together,  and  dividing  our  nuts  and 
candies,  and  shouldn't  think  anything  of  it ;  and  be- 
cause I've  got  a  kind  of  a  fairy  story  to  tell.  Some- 
body gave  me  a  nut,  and  I've  cracked  it ;    and  it's  a 


118  PATIENCE  STBOSa'S  OUTINGS, 

good  deal  too  much  for  one.  And  fairy  gifts  don't 
keep,  you  know.  Rose,  when  you  are  married,  I  don't 
mean  '"o  give  you  a  silver  flat-iron  or  watering-pot, 
or  —  a  parlor  pitchfork  and  spoolrake  — " 

"  What  are  you  talking  about?  " 

"Pitchforks?  Spoolrakes?  Why,  the  newest  pres- 
ents for  brides,  to  be  sure.  Silver  things  to  keep  hung 
up  by  your  work-table,  and  round  ever^^where,  to  reach 
after  whatever  tumbles  down  and  rolls  away  just  when 
you  want  it,  and  where  you  can't  get  it ;  or  for  what  is 
out  of  arm's-length  when  you've  got  your  lap  full.  If 
they  haven't  got  'em  yet,  they  will  by  that  time. 
They've  invented  everything  else.  I'm  not  going  to 
give  3^ou  any  of  these  things ;  and  you've  got  j^our 
grandmother's  spoons.  So  I  want,  —  instead,  —  it's  a 
fairy  story,  you  see,  —  to  go  a  day's  shopping  with 
you,  dear.  Just  one  day.  I  want  a  real  good  outing, 
you  see ;  and  besides  that,  my  pocket's  burnt  all 
through  and  througli." 

Where  had  all  my  beautiful  craft  gone  to,  and  my 
game  of  patience  ? 

I  couldn't  help  it ;   it  was  just  like  me ;   my  heart 


INTO   THE  SUNSHINE.  119 

and  my  pocket  were  burning ;  how  could  I  wait  till  I 
could  say  it  in  German,  and  Rose  in  a  climax  all  the 
while  ? 

And  besides  that,  I  said  before,  it  was  a  morning 
of  outings.  The  whole  world  was  reaching,  and  giv- 
ing, and  asking,  and  brimful,  and  running  over. 

But  the  open-hearted  day  was  on  all  sides.  She 
was  touched  and  tuned  with  it,  as  well  as  I.  She 
wasn't  "  Eose  Noble,"  either,  for  nothing. 

Her  face  was  sweet,  and  bright,  and  surprised,  with 
a  thankful  pleasure,  as  if  some  little  sunshower  had 
fallen  ;  and  there  was  a  high,  generous  understanding 
in  her  ej^es. 

And  she  said,  simply :  — 

"  I  can't  refuse  you  the  '  more  blessed'  -ness,  Pashie, 
can  I?" 

It  was  all  right,  and  very  well ;  and  the  glad  out- 
going day  had  made  me  do  it,  and  fixed  it  all,  a  great 
deal  better  than  I  could  harv^e  planned.  For  there  was 
plenty  to  do,  somehow,  by  and  by. 

When  we  came  home  we  found  Mrs.  S^ireve  sitting 
with  mother.     They  had  been  laughing  till  there  they 


120  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

both  sat,  wiping  their  spectacles.  Mrs.  Shreve  was 
quivering  yet. 

"  Why,  what  is  it,  little  mother?  " 

And  so  they  told  it  over  again.  How  Mrs.  Shreve' s 
new,  green  Irish  girl  —  "I  shall  always  have  a  new 
girl  and  a  raw  one,  as  long  as  I  have  my  old  stove," 
she  said,  as  chipper  as  ever  for  all  that  —  had  been 
found  crjing  at  the  stairs.  She  didn't  know  how  to 
go  up  and  down.  She'd  never  learned  on  anything 
but  a  ladder,  at  home,  and  had  come  straiglit  from 
shipboard. 

'^  It  only  shows,"  said  mother,  when  we  had  got  a 
little  over  it  again,  ''  the  things  we  do  learn,  without 
realizing.  We  have  to  begin  when  we're  babies,  that's 
certain." 

"And  we  never  know  what  we're  laying  up  for," 
said  Mrs.  Shreve.  "  I  suppose  it'll  be  so  between  this 
world  and  the  next,  in  things  we  never  think  of." 

"  In  just  this  very  thii>g,"  said  I,  seized  suddenly 
with  the  meaning.  "  There  are  stairs  between  the 
stories,  —  if  we  knew  how  to  use  them." 

"  Spirits  crying  at  the  bottom,  —  and  spirits  crying 


INTO   THE  SUNSHINE.  121 

at  the  top,  perhaps,  and  onl}^  the  angels  knowing  how 
to  go  up  and  down,"  said  mother,  gently. 

"  I  think,"  said  Rose,  "  the  stairs  we  learn  on  are 
the  stairs  between  the  stories  here,  —  between  the 
different  human  lives." 

"I  knew  I  should  get  it  out  of  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Shreve.  "  That's  what  I  came  and  told  the  story  for. 
I  didn't  know  what  it  was,  but  I  had  a  feeling  of 
something  in  it,  besides  the  fun.  And  you  always 
have  the  thing  that's  wanted,  —  cut  and  dried,  and 
bottled  and  labelled.  There's  alwaj^s  herbs  and  cordial 
in  this  house,  if  everybody  else  Is  out." 


122  PATIENCE  JSTBONG'JS  OUTINGS. 


XI. 


INTO    THE    SHOPS. 


NoFODT  would  believe  what  an  excitement  ifc  was  to 
me,  that  day's  going  to  Boston. 

In  the  first  place,  I  had  not  been  away  from  home 
before,  except  to  go  to  church,  since  I  broke  my  leg. 
And  then,  almost  anything,  if  you  don't  do  it  very 
often,  and  if  most  times  your  days  are  taken  up  with 
little  busy,  dutiful  doings,  makes  a  holiday,  especially 
if  you  are  iiearty  and  thorough  about  it. 

People  who  live  ten  miles  or  so  from  the  city,  and 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  out  of  the  railway  village,  — 
who  con't  keep  any  horses  and  carriages,  and  don't 
spend  money,  usually,  till  they  have  thought  at  least 
twice  about  it,  —  get  the  full  good  of  going  to  Boston. 
They  begin  over  night.  They  make  their  memo- 
randum, and  their  calculations  ;  these  last  to  be  upset 
and  twisted  and  reversed  next  day  by  shop  experience 


INTO   THE  SHOPS.  123 

and  all  the  four  parts  of  arithmetic,  until,  if  it  don't 
end  in  wholly  losing  one's  head,  and  getting  a  general 
wild,  reckless  impression  that  one  is  simply  absorbed 
with  one's  purse,  as  a  very  helpless  and  inconsiderable 
unit,  voluntarily  contributed,  and  no  more  to  be  extri- 
cated, into  the  rush  and  whirl  of  that  day's  Washing- 
ton Street,  and  that  nothing  will  matter  to  anybody 
but  general  results,  —  one  may  congratulate  one's  self 
on  rare  presence  of  mind  and  tenacious  individuality. 
There  is  the  silk,  so  much  a  yard,  cost  of  importation, 
—  so  many  patterns  in  a  piece,  or  a  losing  remnant,  — 
so  much  at  retail  to  pay  a  reasonable  profit  to  honora- 
ble trade,  —  one  price  at  all  the  stores, — what   are 
you  going  to  do?     All   political  economy  and  com- 
mercial combination  are  against  your  simple-minded, 
little  back-parlor  plans  and  reckonings  of  last  night. 

But  I  was  beginning  with  the  pleasantness  ;  I  didn't 
mean  to  get  into  the  craze.  Sometimes  you  don't; 
sometimes  everything  falls  right  in.  It  is  all  match- 
grooved  ;  you  make  all  your  connections ;  another 
time  everything  is  unhitched. 

We   had  a  smooth   day,  — Eose  and  I;   from  the 


124  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

ride  down  the  shady  Old  Road,  in  Farmer  Graitt'a 
covered  wagon,  with  our  best  bonnets  on — (people 
who  go  every  day  or  two  keep  "  Boston  bonnets  "  of 
a  meaner  sort ;  but  if  we  didn't  wear  our  best  to 
Boston,  when  should  we  wear  it  ?)  —  to  the  coming 
out  at  night,  galvanized  up  to  the  arm-sizes  with 
watchful  consciousness  in  every  little  nerve  and 
muscle  of  paper  parcels  various  in  shape  and  bulk, 
never  to  be  lost  feeling  of  till  they  were  got  safely 
home,  and  with  only  our  elbows  left  to  hold  against 
our  pocket-plackets  for  fear  of  the  picks. 

The  waysides  were  blue  with  the  midsummer  flowers 
of  the  wild  succory.  The  tanzy  was  getting  golden 
tops.  There  was  a  little  savor  of  sea-saltness  in  the 
air,  that  just  tingled  the  nostrils  delicately,  and  made 
a  cordial  of  the  light  August  wind.  We  met  little 
boys  with  bare  feet  and  big  baskets,  going  up  to  the 
pastures,  berrying.  Round  the  railroad  station  were 
gentlemen  in  summer  trowsers  and  waistcoats  and 
straw  hats,  unfolding  their  morning  papers ;  and 
ladies  alighting  from  carriages,  giving  each  other  fresh 
morning  greeting  with  fresh,  bright  face** 


INTO  THE  SHOPS.  125 

What  a  pretty  world  it  was,  —  this  side  of  it! 
How  easily  the  day  began,  and  might  run  on,  and 
other  days  come  after,  just  like  this ! 

It  was. queer,  though,  to  think  of  dear,  good  BIrs. 
Shreve,  at  home  with  her  raw  girl,  and  her  pestering 
Btove,  and  her  ironing,  on  this  gay,  free  da3^  And 
of  people  sick  on  beds,  and  people  tired  with  night- 
watching,  and  people  hard  at  work  in  dusty  little 
(Shops,  and  mothers  with  arms  full  and  houses  waiting 
\o  be  put  to  morning  rights,  and  all  the  worry  and 
ache  and  weariness  that  were  surely  about,  some- 
where. Only,  people  are  so  quiet  about  it !  The 
(7orld  has  learned  to  put  up  with  so  much !  There  are 
*Jie  houses,  in  which  such  manifold  cares  of  life  are 
going  on,  hushed,  hanging  no  flag  out,  making  no 
sign ;  nobody  rushing  out  at  the  doors  to  proclaim  a 
grievance,  or  protest  against  the  careless  comfort 
riding  by. 

Yet  the  whole  world  lies  open,  skyward ;  and  no 
walls  shut  out  the  heavenly  sight  and  ministering. 
No  place,  even,  is  mean  to  the  angels  ;  they  come  and 
bring  their  own  glory  with  them. 


126  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

This  went  through  my  mind,  standing  in  the  vil- 
lage waiting  for  the  cars.  There  was  little  stir 
except  what  car-time  made ;  and  presently  there 
would  be  a  rush  and  a  shriek  and  a  bustle,  and  then 
in  a  minute,  the  still  little  place  would  be  left  to  its 
own  stillness  as  if  it  had  just  died.  And  it  gives  up 
the  ghost  so,  ever}''  day. 

It  was  something  to  be  part  of  the  ghost  to-day. 
To  be  one  of  these  for  whom  the  fuss  was  made,  and 
whom  the  little  boys  looked  after,  leaning  over  the 
bridge-rail ;  little  boys,  some  of  them,  who  never 
went  to  Boston  in  their  lives ;  who  stood  at  this  end 
always,  seeing  the  people  go  and  return,  and  knowing 
that  the  great  city  lay  at  the  further  end  of  those  two 
iron  lines  that  curved  off  into  the  little  wood  beside 
the  river. 

Why,  you  can't  move  but  you  get  so  much  to  think 
of.  You  are  in  a  middle  continually,  whether  you 
will  or  no.     It  is  spiritually  and  geometrically  true. 

The  little  birds  sat  on  the  telegraph  wires.  I  won- 
der if  they  feel  the  thrill  of  the  great  words  that  run 
under  them  along  their  perch  ;  and  if  they  fly  off  sud- 


INTO   THE  SHOPS.  127 

deuly  to  the  woods  to  tell  there  what  wonderful  things 
are  outside ;  or  if  they  think  the  iron  strings  are  spun 
tnrough  the  air  on  purpose  for  them  to  roost  on ;  and 
if  so,  what  their  great -great-grandmothers  did  without 
them? 

Perhaps  we  rest  on  spiritual  lines  as  wonderful ; 
how  do  we  know  what  quivers  back  and  forth  close 
by  us,  —  what  unseen  force  is  in  each  thread  we  cling 
to? 

There  is  a  good  deal  in  the  spirit  of  things.  R 
was  so  in  the  beautiful  out-doors,  the  other  day,  when 
all  things  were  giving  and  taking ;  it  was  so  in  the 
shops  this  morning,  when  everybody  was  having  and 
spending.  It  didn't  seem  so  much  for  me  to  have  the 
silk  measured  off  for  Rose,  —  that  we  both  decided 
would  be  so  especially  pretty  for  her,  —  as  it  would 
have  done  if  I  had  gone  alone  and  bought  it,  and 
brought  it  home  with  the  formal  parade  of  a  pres- 
ent. 

I  let  her  pay  in  the  street  cars  for  both,  with  her 
ready  small  change ;  and  it  was  several  times,  for  I 
could  not  tax  my  weaker  limb  with  too  much  walking 


128  TATIENCE  8TB0NG'8  OUTINaS. 

about.  And  I  let  her  settle  for  the  dinner  checks  at 
Vinton's,  while  I  finished  my  ice-cream.  I  never 
thanked  her,  or  took  any  notice ;  it  was  all  fcr 
granted  that  we  were  out  on  a  holiday  together, 
spending  our  coppers. 

So  she  didn't  mind,  —  so  much,  I  mean,  —  when  I 
paid  at  Hovey's.  And  then  I  didn't  give  her  time  to 
think  of  anything,  except  whether  I  was  going  to 
bueak  my  neck,  or  at  least  my  leg  again,  as  I  plunged 
across  Summer  Street  amongst  the  teams  and  car- 
riages, threading  myself  in  and  out  against  the  back 
wheels,  and  ran  up  into  the  carpet  store. 

"  You  see  it's  your  mother's  turn  now,  Kose,  so 
hush  up.  I  think,  myself,  it's  the  mothers  that  ought 
to  have  the  wedding  presents." 

That  was  an  inspiration.  Rose  couldn't  refuse  for 
her  mother,  and  her  mother  couldn't  refuse  after  Rose 
had  accepted.  I  never  thought  of  it  till  that  minute, 
but  it  was  one  of  the  things  that  fa^^ed  right  in,  that 
blessed  day. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Rose,  with  a  kind  of  a  gasp 
in    her    breath   as   she   whispered,  —  for  the   carpet 


INTO   THE  SHOPS,  129 

gentleman  had  met  us  now,  at  the  head  of  the 
stah's,  —  "  but  I  feel  as  if  I  were  going  over  Niagara 
Falls." 

"  Precisely  ;  so  what  have  you  to  do  with  it?  It's 
the  river's  lookout.  Can  you  show  us  some  small- 
figured,  ingrain  carpets,  —  bright  colors,  —  brown, 
with  a  little  crimson,  sir?" 

I  said  it  very  glib,  understanding  myself  perfectly , 
which  I  don't  always  do  —  at  the  right  minute  —  when 
I  go  shopping.  That's  another  difference  in  the  days, 
and  the  state  of  brain ;  the  memorandums  may  be  all 
the  same.  I  established  the  rapport  directly, — be- 
tween me  and  the  salesman  and  the  particular  roll  of 
carpet  that  was  there,  among  those  walls  of  rolls,  like 
the  statue  in  the  marble.  It  is  dreadful  when  a  sort 
of  fog  comes  over  3'ou  just  when  you  mean  to  make 
your  wishes  plain,  —  a  distrust  of  the  instant  apprecia- 
tion of  your  attendant,  who,  of  course,  in  that  case, 
instantly  does  not  appreciate.  Ifc  is  your  faith  that 
fails ;  and  so  you  stand  before  the  mountain,  —  the 
whole  enormous  stock  in  trade,  —  and  nothing  moves  ; 

except,  indeed,  exactly  the  wrong  things,  which,  if 
9 


130  PATIENQE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

he's  very  obliging,  he  goes  on  with  till  you  are  ready 
to  cry  because  you  can't  possibly  stop  him. 

Now,  it  was  rolled  right  down,  —  the  very  thing 
we  had  thought  of  and  talked  about ;  little  bright, 
brown  leaves,  and  red  berries,  twisted  together  over  a 
mottled  ground  of  quieter  shades  ;  well  covered  in  the 
pattern,  and  well  knit  in  the  weaving ;  good  to  sweep 
and  to  wear,  and  lovely  to  look  at. 

"  "We'll  send  the  express  for  it  to-morrow  morning," 
said  I ;  and  I  left  Eose  sitting  on  a  carpet-roll  while 
I  got  away  to  the  desk,  to  give  the  address  and  pay 
the  bill. 

Tliat  hadn't  seemed  much  either ;  we  were  suited 
so  quick,  and  there  was  so  little  chance  for  comparing 
and  counting  up. 

Afterward,  we  were  in  and  out  at  Mudge's,  and 
Churchill  &'  Watson's,  and  Holbrook's, — jolly  and 
reckless  as  two  little  drops  in  the  rapids,  that  had 
just  as  lief  go  anj^where  now,  among  the  rest,  as  how 
could  we  help  it  once  we  had  got  in  ?  And  we  made 
up  indiscriminate  bundles  together,  she  choosing,  and 
I  cl  loosing,  and  both  paying,  till  I  knew  sh&  would 


INTO   THE  SHOPS.  131 

never  unravel  the  account  of  it,  or  know  exactly  how 
she  happened  to  get  half  of  them,  —  the  big  things 
and  little.  I  didn't  say  anything  about  the  two  lace 
collars,  or  the  half-dozen  little  vine-embroidered 
handkerchiefs,  or  the  Balbriggan  stockings,  which 
she  didn't  know  were  eighteen  dollars  the  dozen,  but 
which  I  knew  would  be  worth  the  money,  and  outlast 
all  the  rest  she  was  buying.  What  business  had  she 
to  interfere  with  my  part  of  the  parcels  ? 

I  never  felt  so  bright,  and  so  wicked,  an.d  so  wise, 
and  heart-happy,  in  all  my  life. 

I  couldn't  smuggle  in  the  "back  hair"  among  the 
dry  goods,  so  I  took  her  deliberately  away  to  West 
Street,  among  the  waterfalls,  and,  —  I  can't  think  of 
any  other  word,  —  I  "boosted"  up  her  conscience  to 
buy. 

"If  it  wasn't  more  than  six  dollars, — just  a  little 
one,  — perhaps  she  would." 

And  so  we  went  in. 

I  had  been  there  last  winter  with  Aunt  Hetty 
Maria,  to  get  a  frizette,  so  I  felt  as  if  I  knew  the 
pvan.     When  you  don't  buy  a  thing  more  than  once 


132  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OVTINGS, 

in  a  dozen  years,  it  seems  as  if  it  stood  out  among  the 
seller's  transactions  as  it  does  among  your  own.  At 
any  rate,  I  knew  them  all  well  enough  to-day.  I  felt 
intimate  and  privileged  everywhere ;  for  I  had,  —  or 
had  had,  —  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  my  pocket, 
and  twenty-eight  hundred  and  fifty  more  at  home,  in 
the  blue  book. 


2.VrO   THE  TEABS.  133 


XII. 


INTO  THE  TEAKS. 


Rose  was  as  shamefaced  over  the  box  of  bands  as 
if  the  man  were  used  to  blushes. 

Of  course  there  was  nothing  for  six  dollars, — 
scarcely  for  ten  or  twelve  ;  though  at  last,  finding  that 
the  law  of  increase  in  price  was  more  according  to  the 
inch  or  two  difference  in  lengths,  than  to  the  thickness, 
I  matched  the  bright  chestnut  tint  of  the  head  that 
bent  itself  so  mutely  above  the  counter  of  falsities,  with 
a  soft,  full  fall  of  hair,  not  quite  so  fine  or  quite  so  long 
as  those  we  had  been  looking  at,  but  bright  as  Eose's 
own,  and  which  the  dealer  said  he  would  let  us  have 
for  eleven  dollars.  "And  cheap,  too,  for  the  shade 
everybody's  wearing." 

Rose  lifted  her  head,  and  moved  the  box  slightly  from 
her.  "  You  see  it  is  no  use,"  she  said,  "  and  perhaps 
it  is  just  as  well." 


134  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS. 

But  I  was  so  determined  that  day  upon  my  wicked- 
ness. 

I  put  the  hair  into  her  hand. 

"See,"  said  I,  "the  color  is  perfect,  —  better  than 
those  long  ones.  And  I  think  we  can  come  to  some 
agreement.  AYe  are  country  ladies,"  I  observed  per- 
suasively and  confidentially  to  the  hair-merchant,  "  and 
exiDCct  to  make  bargains,  you  know." 

Meanwhile  I  had  got  out  a  five-dollar  bill.  I  could 
have  picked  Rose's  pocket,  let  alone  my  own,  for  all 
she  would  have  noticed  about  it.  Her  head  was  down 
again.  She  didn't  know  what  to  do  with  the  band  of 
hair,  or  how  to  get  rid  of  it.  I  believe  she  was  getting 
vexed  with  me. 

I  held  up  the  five-dollar  note  over  her  shoulder, 
between  my  thumbs  and  fingers.    I  nodded  to  the  man. 

"  Call  it  six  dollars,"  said  I,  as  bold  as  Jack  the 
Giant-Killer.  "  That  was  the  price  she  had  made  up 
her  mind  to." 

The  man's  eyes  looked  funny  for  a  minute,  between 
growing  big  suddenly  and  then  twinkling.  I  don't 
think  he  ever  had  such  extraordinary  customers  befoi  e. 


Il^TO  THE  TEABS.   '  135 

"Well,  —  it  is  an  odd  length,  —  and  wove  in  the 
old  style,  flat,  —  if  it  suits  3^011,  VWcall  it  six;  though 
it's  low,  very  low  ;  and  I  shouldn't  like  the  price  to  be 
told  of."  ■ 

No  danger  of  Rose  displaying  her  bargain,  which 
she  was  so  ashamed  to  make. 

I  took  the  thing  from  her,  and  gave  it  to  the  shop- 
man to  be  put  up  ;  and  with  it,  I  tucked  the  five  dollars 
into  his  hand. 

She  got  out  her  little  porte-monnaie,  and  paid  the 
six ;  and  that's  all  she  knows  about  it  to  this  day. 

I  have  about  come  to  the  conclusion  that  —  once  in 
a  great  while  —  even  a  good,  well-meaning  action  is  all 
the  more  enjoyable  if  you  have  to  put  a  little  spice  of 
iniquity  into  it. 

Rose  was  very  still,  riding  up  that  evening,  in  Far- 
mer Graitt's  wagon.  Things  seemed  to  be  coming  over 
her  all  at  once  with  a  sort  of  realizing  sense.  We 
had  got  out  of  the  city  whirl  into  the  calm  country 
again. 

When  she  got  down  at  her  own  gate  and  bade  me 
good-night  she  said :  — 


136  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

"  I  don't  half  know  what  has  possessed  me  to-day, 
Patience.     What  will  mother  say  to  it  all  ?  " 

It  was  the  naughty  child  coming  home  after  the  fun 
was  over. 

"  Never  you  mind,  Rosy,"  said  I,  as  hardened  as 
ever.  "  Don't  tell  her  everything  all  at  once.  I'll 
come  across  to-morrow  morning,  and  bear  all  the  blame. 
And  help  make  the  carpet." 


The  next  day  was  m}^  birthday.  I  have  got  into  a 
way  of  having  birthdays  lately.  They  always  used  to 
come,  once  in  a  while,  but  nowadays  the  whiles  are 
shorter. 

There  was  more  than  a  plenty  of  time  between  them 
once  ;  I  got  quite  tired  of  being  eight  years  old,  I  re- 
member, before  the  day  came  when  I  could  say  I  was 
nine ;  and  I  was  thoroughly  used  to  calling  myself  fif- 
teen before  the  dignity  of  sixteen  was  laid  upon  me. 

I  was  in  no    danger,  then,  of  forgetting  my  age 
There  was  a  real  mile  between  each  two  milestones. 

I  travelled  in  a  coach  and  four  in  those  days  ;  I  could 
see  the  wheels  go  round,  and  count  the  little  flowers  by 


INTO   THE  YEAItS.  137 

the  wayside.  At  some  point  or  other,  unperceivecl  of 
me,  they  took  off  the  horses,  and  put  on  steam ;  and 
now,  whiz !  the  milestones  flash  by  me,  till  life  seems 
sometimes  nothing  but  a  post  and  rail  fence. 

There  is,  really,  such  a  thing  as  an  "  uncertain"  age. 
It  is  a  solemn  fact  that  the  time  comes  when  you  have 
to  stop  and  calculate  before  you  can  tell  the  truth. 
Why,  it  is  quite  hard  enough  to  remember  the  year  of 
our  Lord,  —  at  least  between  January  and  July.  No 
wonder  they  make  a  festival  of  the  world's  birthday. 
They  have  to.  It  is  a  mere  practical  necessity.  With 
out  it,  the  very  planet  would  lose  count  and  go  adrift, 
like  any  other  spinster.  I  hardly  got  used  to  1867  be- 
fore 1868  came;  indeed,  it  seems  queer  still  that  we 
are  in  the  sixties  at  all.  I  realize  nothing  farther  down 
than  the  forties.  The  rest  seems  tacked  on  in  a  hurry. 
The  years  are  as  if  they  had  been  gathered  before  they 
were  ripe  ;  or  like  what  I  was  talking  about  the  other 
day,  —  the  machine  stitches  that  yon.  don't  have  the 
comfort  of  as  stitches  ;  the  first  thing  you  know,  you've 
got  a  seam. 

That  brings  me  back  to  this  very,  blessed  birthday 


138  PATIENCE  STBOXG'S  OUTINGS. 

of  mine,  —  my  thirty-ninth.  There  was  another  seam 
done,  —  I  had  only  got  to  join  off,  —  and  I  meant  to 
have  a  holiday.  I  gave  myself  raj^  own  treat.  I  tyr- 
annized over  my  little  mother,  and  made  her  give  up 
everything  she  had  thought  of,  —  the  special  raspberry- 
roll  for  dinner  and  the  iced-cake  for  tea,  —  the  making 
of  them  at  least,  that  she  was  going  to  help  Emery  Ann 
with,  —  and  come  over  with  me,  picnicing  and  carpet- 
sewing  at  the  Nobles'.  Emery  Ann  could  make  the 
raspberry-roll  alone,  and  bring  it  after  us  at  twelve 
o'clock. 

We  have  a  fashion  round  in  our  little  neighborhood, 
—  the  Shreves,  and  the  Nobles,  and  we,  —  of  picnic 
visits.  "We  did  it  before  great  surprise  parties  were  in- 
vented. We  would  take  our  pie  and  our  knitting-work, 
and  "  run  in."  It  is  a  nice  way.  Especially  if  you  choose 
a  day  when  you  know  that  the  girl  is  gone,  or  any  little 
domestic  enterprise  out  of  the  cooking  line,  and  adverse 
to  it,  is  afoot ;  your  knitting-work  is  nothing  to  lay  by, 
you  know ;  and  you  are  running  breadths,  or  setting 
up  china  before  anybody  notices ;  and  the  pie  or  the 
roasted  ducks  come  in  so  "  pleasant  and  unexpected" 


INTO   TEE  YEABS.  139 

at  the  end.  For  it  is  an  understood  point  that  though 
you  bring  a  basket  as  big  as  a  baby's  wagon,  and  only 
produce  four  needles  and  a  ball  of  yarn  to  account  for 
it,  and  though  everybody  has  to  walk  round  it  and  over 
it  twenty  times,  it  shall  be  an  utterly  invisible  and 
spiritual  presence  till  the  surprise  comes  out  of  it. 

I  killed  two  birds  to-day ;  or  I  made  two  knots  in 
the  end  of  mj^  seam. 

I  had  something  all  ready  in  my  pocket  for  Dickie 
Shreve  ;  that  is,  for  his  mother,  only  she  wouldn't  know 
it.  It  was  really  a  cooking-stove ;  but  in  fairy  deal- 
ings,—  which  are  all  that  can  come  of  a  fairy  gift, — 
you  never  know  exactly  what  you  have  or  handle. 

What  I  appeared  to  take  out  of  my  pocket  and  give 
to  Dickie  Shreve  that  morning  —  it  happened  nicely 
^'  by  the  way  "  as  I  meant  it  should,  for  we  met  him  as 
we  went  across  —  was  a  j^ear's  railway  ticket. 

He  was  going  to  enter  the  School  of  Technology  in 
September ;  and  I  expected  to  make  a  little  express- 
man of  him  in  his  trips  to  and  from  the  city.  I  tol^ 
him  so  ;  that  I  should  have  books  from  Loring's,  and 
things  from  drj^-goods  stores,  and  Brigham's  rolls,  and 


140  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

letters  to  post,  and  cheques  to  cash,  and  bills  to  pay, 
and  worsteds  to  match,  all  winter  long  ;  so  he  needn't 
be  obliged  ;  he  didn't  know  yet  what  he  was  coming  to. 
I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  have  a  claim  upon  him,  and 
he  would  be  tired  enough  of  his  bargain  before  he  got 
through. 

Season  tickets  are  pretty  dear  on  our  branch,  and  I 
knew  it  would  make  the  difference  of  the  cooking- 
stove,  and  more,  in  Mrs.  Shreve's  plans.  I  saw  a  new 
suit  of  clothes  in  the  perspective  of  Dick's  eyes,  as  I 
snubbed  him  up  in  his  thanks  and  sent  him  off. 

The  carpet  arrived  at  Mrs.  Noble's  just  as  we  did ; 
and  she  didn't  know  which  to  let  in  first.  Gammel 
was  in  a  hurry,  and  the  great  roll  was  right  in  the  door- 
way, and  so  were  we.  There  were  so  many  counter- 
excitements,  and  it  was  so  exactly  as  bad  for  us  as  for 
her,  blundering  right  upon  this  particular  moment,  that 
everything  was  got  over  without  being  really  done  at 
all ;  giving  and  taking,  and  blaming  and  thanking,  and 
walking  in  and  making  welcome.  Mrs.  Noble  never 
got  farther,  or  clearer,  than  :  — 

"  Well,  I  never  did!   Rose   said  —  but  I  couldn't 


INTO   THE  YEABS.  141 

have  believed  —  what  could  possess  you  ?  I  don't  know 
a  thing  to  say,  —  I  haven't  got  a  single  word.  Come 
right  in,  and  lay  off  your  things.  I'm  right  down  glad 
to  see  you,  at  any  rate." 

We  hadn't  anything  to  lay  off  but  parasols,  and 
then  we  all  fell  to  cutting  the  cords  and  pulling  away 
the  heavy  paper,  and  letting  out  the  bright  lengths 
over  the  floor. 

"  "Well,  who  would?"  began  Mrs.  Noble  again.  "  I 
do  declare,  it's  perfectly  elegant !  And  I  can't  say  a 
single  word !  "  She  was  as  sure  of  this  as  any  speech- 
maker,  and  went  on  accordingly.  "  Why,  you  could 
most  pick  up  those  leaves,  especially  the  light-shaded 
ones,  -r-  those  maple-yellows.  They  look  so  raised. 
And  it's  such  a  good  mixed  ground  ;  and  the  pattern 
all  wove  in  so  close  and  firm.  Why,  there  won't  be  a 
pocket  in  it  when  it  w^ears ;  and  it  never  will  wear. 
It'll  turn  over,  and  end  for  end,  and  any  way.  Well, 
there,  —  I  haven't  got  a  word  !  " 

Sure  enough,  now  she  hadn't.  She  had  said  it  till 
it  had  come  true. 

We  had  a  beautiful  time,  cutting,  and  matching,  and 


142  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

sewiug  ;  only  there  wasn't  half  enough  to  do.  There 
were  only  five  long  seams  for  four  of  us  ;  and  the  ends 
to  catch-stitch  down,  and  the  short  pieces  to  put  on  for 
the  side  windows  by  the  chimney.  By  the  time  Emery 
Ann  and  the  raspberry  roll  came,  we  had  got  all 
through,  and  had  spread  it  out  and  were  walking  on  it. 

"  You  might  rake  'em  up,  all  into  one  corner,  they're 
so  natural,"  Mrs.  Noble  began  over  again.  "  /shouldn't 
ever  have  lit  on  it.  They'd  have  sold  me  some  old 
thing  in  squares,  or  eggs,  or  diamonds.  I'm  so  old- 
fashioned  looking,  you  see ;  they  keep  things  laid  by 
for  old  women  and  out  West.  And  you  can't  show  'em 
half  you  know,  —  that  is,'  if  you're  at  all  polite.  Paper 
hangings  and  carpets  are  the  biggest  trials  to  buy ; 
I'd  as  lief  be  fed  with  a  spoon." 

It  was  such  a  real,  good  time.  It  was  one  of  the 
best  birthdays  I  had  almost  ever  had,  —  this  last  of 
the  thirties. 

It  was  one  of  the  life-outings  ;  one  that  might  have 
been  hard  and  regretful,  but  filled  brimful  of  sunshiny 
pleasantness  for  me  to  remember  it  alwa3^s  by. 

I  shan't  be  a  bit  afraid  to  go  clear  out  —  into  forty. 


INTO  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT  FAB  T  OF  IT.     US 


xm. 

INTO  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT  PART  OF  IT. 

Mother's  birthday  is  just  a  fortnight  after  mine. 
For  a  little  while,  so,  I  feel,  —  after  a  fashion,  —  the 
oldest.  At  any  rate,  I  am  always  her  oldest  child, 
and  she  is  my  youngest  mother ;  for  the  mother  is  as 
many  in  her  family,  —  separately  and  specially  to 
each,  —  as  God  is  in  his  world. 

We  are  both  in  one  month  ;  the  beautiful  September 
M}^  day  is  the  very  first,  and  hers  is  the  fifteenth.  I 
h^ve  the  earliest  touch  of  the  autumn  time  upon  me, 
and  she  is  in  the  middle  beauty. 

For  just  these  two  weeks,  we  can  pretend  to  count  a 
whole  year  less  of  difference. 

She  tells  me  of  those  happj^  two  weeks,  of  which  the 
reminder  is  like  a  lor.g  birthday  joy,  reaching  from 
mine  to  hers,  and  making  it  holy  and  beautiful  all  be- 
tween ;  when  she  was  not  quite  eighteen  and  I  had 


144  FATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINQS. 

come  to  belong  to  all  the  rest  of  her  life,  for  always 
and  always.  I  enter  so  into  what  it  must  have  been 
for  her,  that  it  is  as  if  I,  too,  had  known  motherhood. 
All  mutual  relations  are  like  reflected  rainbows. 
The  first  is  straight  from  the  sun ;  but  the  second  is 
over  against  it  and  like  unto  it ;  and  the  one  light  is  in 
them  all. 

TVe  almost  always  make  some  plan  that  links  our 
birthdays  together  and  keeps  them  as  one.  We  take 
the  fortnight  to  do  something  pretty  and  extra  for  the 
house,  beginning  on  my  day,  and  finishing  and  setting 
up  on  hers ;  or  we  go  to  Bearwood,  or  to  Boston,  — 
to  Eiiphalet's,  taking  the  pleasantness  of  the  plan  and 
the  starting  and  anticipation  for  me,  and  the  better 
pleasantness  of  the  home-coming  for  her ;  and  lay  up 
thirteen  days  of  things  to  talk  over  all  winter,  between. 
Or  we  have  somebodj^  to  stay  with  us,  and  keep  simple 
festival ;  without  their  knowing  why,  perhaps. 

This  time  our  hearts  were  in  the  same  thing, — 
Rose  Noble's  little  wedding  havings  ;  we  had  got  into 
the  middle  of  those.  I  had  almost  made  the  child  be- 
lieve that  she  might  go  on  with  what  she  knew  she 


INTO  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT  PJJt  T  OF  IT.     145 

could  do  herself,  and  leave  the  rest  to  Providence,  that 
had  begun  to  bring  things  to  bear,  and  was  setting  a 
hope  for  the  bright  October  in  both  their  hearts  that 
would  never  be  let  to  come  quite  to  nought. 

As  for  the  school,  Katie  was  to  keep  it  up  now, 
whenever  she  left  it ;  so  that  made  no  difference. 

And  there  was  something  I  had  got  it  into  my  head 
to  do,  that  I  could  do  best  by  way  of  helping  Rose. 

What  would  become  of  me  if  I  had,  —  what  does  be- 
come of  people,  I  wonder,  who  have,  —  thirty,  or  three 
hundred  thousand  to  do  with  and  to  account  for  ?  My 
outings  crowd  so  with  these  three  thousand  opportuni- 
ties of  mine.  For  I  mean  to  spend  them  every  one 
somehow ;  and  put  out  what  they  get  at  interest.  I 
shall  have  it  all  my  life  to  be  glad  of;  and  the  glad- 
ness of  it  shall  be  growing  in  other  lives.  Bank  inter- 
est isn't  the  only  interest,  even  in  common,  selfish 
money-using.  A  man  failed  and  they  took  all  his 
money  away  ;  that  was  all  they  could  find  though  ;  he 
said  he'd  had  forty  years  of  good  living,  and  they 
couldn't  touch  that. 

How  can  I  tell  that  I  should  be  here  to  use  it  as  it 
10 


14 G  FATIEiiCE  STEONG'S  OUTINGS. 

came, — the  little  income,  —  two  or  three  himdrecl  a 
year?  Or  that  some  trouble  of  ours  should  not  claim 
it,  or  sweep  it  all  awa}'  ?  Or  that  I  should  keep  my 
good  mind  even,  and  do  with  it  the  best  it  could  do, 
and  not  be  tempted  too  much,  here  and  there,  in  my 
own  living  and  having  ? 

Of  course  I  could  fix  it  somehow,  to  all  probability ; 
I  could  endow,  or  bequeath  ;  but  I  believe  so  in  that 
other,  living,  interest,  better  than  the  dollars  that  grow 
out  of  dollars,  and  can  only  do  dollars'  worth  as  thej 
come,  after  all.  Nothing  stops ;  j^ercentage  is  only 
the  sign  of  a  realer  thing.  The  box  of  ointment  might 
have  been  turned  into  three  hundred  pence,  and  doled 
out  here  and  there ;  but  it  was  all  poured  on  Jesus* 
head ;  and  the  perfume  of  it  has  come  down  into  the 
whole  world,  and  the  years  of  our  Lord,  and  has  filled 
this  room  of  the  Father  full. 

I  have  got  Seelie  Rubb  on  my  hands  now.  Of 
course.  Why  are  we  shown  first  one  thing,  and  then 
another  ?  First  blue  books  full  of  money-orders  ;  and 
then  Seelie  Rubbs,  —  if  we're  not  to  put  this  and  that 
together  ? 


INTO  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT  PABT  OF  IT   147 

Why  shouldn't  I  spell  after  the  Lord  as  fast  as  he 
pats  his  finger  on  the  letters?  Dollars  —  or  any 
gifts  —  are  only  illuminated  initials ;  the  shine  of 
them  is  only  the  leading  to  what  comes  next ;  all  the 
little  plain  black  print  that  joins  the  meaning  on. 

Seelie  l?ubb's  little  pale  face  and  tired  figure  didn't 
stop  under  the  locusts,  and  look  over  into  our  side- 
yard  that  very  next  Monday  when  I  was  shaking  my 
duster  out  of  the  parlor  window,  without  coming  into 
my  parsing  and  spelling.  Everybody  must  study  their 
own  primer.  . 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  said  I.  "You've  had  a 
long  walk  from  the  village." 

She  looked  surprised.  She  had  never  been  into  our 
house  in' her  life.  She  had  come  by  twenty  houses 
that  morning  that  she  had  never  been  into. 

The  door  stood  open,  and  I  went  round  and  stepped 
out  on  the  porch.  She  turned  in  at  the  gate,  to  an- 
swer me  civilly  within  earshot. 

"I  don't  know,  —  I  guess  not,  —  Fm  very  much 
obliged  ;  I  was  out  for  a  little  fresh  air.  It's  so  differ- 
ent in  the  village,  you  see." 


148  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

"  Come  right  in,  and  have  a  glass  of  milk,  Seelie. 
That's  different  in  the  village  too." 

I  brought  her  some  morning's  milk,  —  we  always 
set  away  one  or  two  tumblers  to  cream  over  for  drink- 
ing ;  you  get  the  sweet  top-flavor  all  through,  so,  — 
and  a  slice  of  mother's  sponge  cake  on  a  plate. 

"  Why,  you're  very  kind,"  said  Seelie,  simply.  "  I 
don't  know  as  I  ought  to  let  you  take  the  trouble. 
How  pleasant  it  is  here ! " 

She  sat  by  the  west  window,  up  which  the  creepers 
came,  and  be3^ond  which  was  the  chestnut  shade.  It 
was  different  from  Miss  Widger's  little  shop,  where 
she  sat  and  worked  at  dress-making,  and  where  a  gera- 
nium pot  and  a  great  white  cat  with  pink  bows  in  its 
ears  filled  up  the  window-seat,  and  the  dust  of  the 
street  came  drifting  in. 

"  If  shops  didn't  only  have  to  be  in  villages  !  "  See- 
lie said. 

"  Yes,  if  work  could  all  be  done  in  the  pleasant 
green  places !  I  think  of  that,  sometimes,  in  the  vil- 
lage and  in  town.  How  the  work  of  the  world  over- 
lays the  world,  and  blots  the  color  of  it  out.     How 


INTO  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT  PART  OF  IT.  149 

men  come  with  their  mills  and  their  blacksmithing  into 
the  woods  by  the  rivers,  and  how  other  things  have  to 
come  after,  till  everything  is  gravelled  and  planked 
and  bricked  and  crowded  up,  and  the  beauty  is  buried, 
and  a  stone  put  over  it.  And  yet  the  sweet  earth  with 
t'he  seeds  in  it  is  underneath  all  the  while,  and  the 
blue  and  the  clouds  are  overhead,  and  it's  always  a 
place  that  might  be,  and  that  there  are  some  scraps 
left  of,  —  trees  and  water  —  and  grass  blades  coming 
up  between  the  bricks,  —  after  all." 

"If  it  was  only  the  planks  and  the  dust,"  said  See- 
lie.  "But  it's  getting  pretty  bad  lately  with  Bad- 
sham's  smoke,  since  he  set  the  new  chimneys  going. 
They  come  right  up  out  of  the  hollow,  and  so  just  send 
that  yellow  choke  into  our  windows.  Once  or  twice 
every  day,  —  when  they  fire  up  or  something,  —  its 
dreadful.  It's  bad  for  mother,  too,  since  she  had  the 
pleurisy.  Oh,  it's  another  world  the  minute  you  get 
this  side  of  the  hill !  " 

I  know  how  that  is.     I  know  how  the  woods   and 

pastures  meet  you  with   their  sweet   breath,  as  you 

» 
come  down  yist  ever  so  little  over  the  crown. 


150  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

"  You're  ixot  busy  now,  then?  The  fall  work  hasn't 
come  in  much?" 

"  No.  Miss  "VYidger  won't  want  me  till  about  the 
twentieth.  I  wish  she  did.  Then  the  fall  hurry  be- 
gins. I've  been  out,  now,  since  the  second  week  in 
August.  I  meant  to  have  gone  down  East  to  my 
uncle's,  for  a  vacation,  but  mother  hasn't  been  well.  I 
wish  I  could  get  her  up  here.  It  would  do  her  a  sight 
of  good  to  come  up  and  breathe  a  little.  But  she 
couldn't  ever  walk  so  far." 

Green  pastures  and  still  waters  !  "What  that  prom- 
ise must  be  to  so  many  ! 

I  sent  some  sponge  cake  and  some  pears  to  Seelie's 
mother,  and  the  rest  of  that  day  I  thought  it  over,  — 
.till  it  fayed  in. 


"  That's  off  my  mind  !  "  said  mother,  putting  away 
the  week's  mending,  and  turning  the  stocking-basket 
bottom  up. 

"  I  don't  know  as  there's  au}^  particular  good  in 
that,"  said  Emery  Ann.     "  Something  else'll  l.e  onto 


INTO  TEE  NEW  TESTAMENT  PABT  OF  IT.   151 

it  again  direc^.     I've  spent  all  my  life  in  getting 

things  off  my  mind." 

•   "  Well,  that's  it,"  said  I.     "  That's  living." 

"  Seems  so,"  said  Emery  Ann,  and  went  out  of  the 
room. 

*•  Mother,  I  want  to  do  something  rather  queer,"  I 
began,  as  soon  as  she  had  gone.  "  I've  been  thinking 
of  it  these  two  days.     It's  on  my  mind." 

"Well,  childie?"  said  mother,  with  faith  and  pa- 
tience in  her  voice. 

I  didn't  want  to  try  them  too  far.  She  mightn't 
altogether  like  it,*  and  quite  reasonably. 

"Would  you  mind?  Would  you  think  it  very 
4ueer?  I've  looked  at  it  till  I  can't  tell.  It's  as 
straight  as  can  be  in  a  New  Testament  light." 

"I  hope  my  spectacles  won't  make  it  crooked  then," 
said  mother.     As  if  she  ever  crooked  anything  ! 

"It's  the  Hubbs;  Seelie  and  her  mother.  You 
know  Seelie,  in  Miss  Widger's  little  shop  ?  The  very 
thing  that  makes  it  queer  is  the  New  Testament  part 
of  it." 

Mother  smoothed  her  gown  over  her  lap,  and  said 


152  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

nothing;  waiting  quietly  for  me  to  end  my  shying 
about,  and  come  to  the  New  Testament  part  of  it. 

She  smoothed  her  gown  down  so,  when  she  was 
ready  and  attentive ;  when  she  had  put  her  own  affairs 
out  of  her  thought  for  the  minute,  and  waited  to  take 
in  somebody's  else ;  just  as  she  might  lay  her  work 
out  of  her  hands,  and  smooth  her  lap  to  take  a  child 
up,  and  hear  what  it  had  got  to  say.  I  could  talk  out 
freer  when  it  came  to  this  pleasant  sign  of  hers. 

"I  want  to  ask  them  right  up  here,  mother,  for  a 
while.  They're  strangers,  but  I'd  like  to  take  them 
in.     That's  the  queerness,  —  and  the  other  part." 

Then  I  went  on,  braver. 

"  You  see  they're  choked  out  with  Badsham's 
smoke.  And  Seelie  got  tired  with  her  hot-weather 
work,  and  never  got  rested ;  her  mother's  been  sick. 
And  she  crawls  up  here  for  a  breath  of  pasture  air,  — 
and  can't  take  it  home  to  her  mother  in  a  basket. 
And  it  fits  all  round,  as  the  right  piece  always  does. 
Rose  has  got  her  dress-making  to  do,  and  we  meant 
to  help  her  along  at  any  rate  ;  and  Seelie  can  measure 
and  baste  her  here  at  home,  and  save  her  ever  so  much 


INTO  THE  NEW  TESTAMENT  PABT  OF  IT.   153 

hindrance ;  and  we  can  all  be  together,  —  all  the 
birthday-time,  motherdie,  —  in  such  a  satisfaction  ! " 

"  Well,  dearie,  I  see  the  New  Testament  part  of  it ; 
but  Where's  the  queerness  ?  " 

And  the  darling  little  woman  smoothed  out  her  lap 
again,  motherly  and  welcoming,  and  her  face  opened 
itself  like  the  daylight,  and  —  I  couldn't  see  the  queer- 
ness myself,  now.  It  had  all  come  into  place,  a  part 
of  the  things  that  are ;  the  settled  things,  that  in  a 
minute  are  no  longer  strange,  but  get  an  old  look 
directly,  as  if  they  had  been  from  the  beginning. 

I've  got  to  skip  over  this  fortnight,  pretty  much ;  T 
wish  I  hadn't.  There  was  ever  so  much  in  it.  Rose'fe" 
pretty  work,  which  Seelie  said  was  a  rest  itself,  after 
the  fineries  of  mill-girls  and  servants ;  and  the  walks 
down  the  lane,  and  in  the  garden ;  and  Mrs.  Rubb's 
talks  about  down  East,  and  their  happy  da^'s,  and 
their  troubles,  and  their  moving,  and  how  they  had 
been  "put  to  it"  to  get  on  here;  and  Emery  Ann's 
nice  breakfasts,  and  dinners,  and  teas ;  and  Mrs. 
Rubb's  noticing  of  our  old-fashioned  backgammon 
table  in   the  corner. — so  odd  and   so  handsome, — 


154  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

that  swivelled  round  and  opened  over,  and  had  the 
little  side  cribs  for  the  men  and  boxes,  and  was  so 
pretty  with  the  inlaying  of  two-colored  woods  ;  and 
mother  finding  out  that  she  knew  how,  and  was  so 
fond  of  it,  and  used  to  play  so  much,  only  their  board 
got  broken  first,  and  then  lost  in  the  moving ;  and 
their  games  together  in  blind  man's  holidays ;  and 
everything  seeming  so  natural,  as  if  they  might  have 
been  friends  or  cousins,  instead  of  strange  people  out 
of  the  village ;  and  Mrs.  Rubb's  saying  that  there 
was  "  one  more  beautiful  place  in  the  world,  and  she 
shouldn't  ever  lose  it  nor  forget  it ;  "  and  their  going 
home  in  Farmer  Graitt's  wagon,  with  some  of  Eraer}^ 
Ann's  bread,  and  mother's  cake,  and  a  pair  of  roasted 
chickens,  because  their  fire  had  been  out  for  ten  da^^s  ; 
and  a  big  basket  of  pears,  and  Porter  apples,  and 
tomatoes,  and  some  Hubbard  squashes  under  the  seat, 
because  we  had  more  than  we  knew  what  to  do  with ; 
and  best  of  all  with  a  color  in  Seelie's  cheeks,  and  a 
look  in  both  their  faces,  as  if  it  was  glad  and  worth 
while  again  to  be  alive. 
This  was  the  between-time ;   but  I  had  something 


INTO  THE  NEW  TESTA3IENT  PABT  OF  IT.    155 

kept  back  still,  for  the  real  birthday,  when  mother  was 
her  dear,  bright  fift3^-seven. 

I  took  her  to  walk  iu  the  warm  sunset,  —  we  were 
having  beautiful  days,  and  great,  ripe  harvest  moons, 

—  and  we  went  away  through  the  cedar  woods  till  we 
came  out  on  the  Edge  Rock,  where  our  land  ended, 
and  a  piece  came  in  cornerwise,  up  out  of  the  hollow, 

—  a  beautiful  little  piece,  three  acres  and  a  half  or  so, 
of  oak  and  maple  woodland,  —  opening  out  on  the 
other  side  upon  the  little  twist  of  cross-road,  and 
squaring  so  with  our  own  boundaries  farther  up. 

Mother  never  cares  to  own  things,  ^^  just  for  own- 
ing ;  but  some  time  or  other  the  old  home-place  would 
be  Eliphalet's ;  and  men  like  things  square  and  ship- 
shape ;  she  knew  he'd  think  of  it  by  and  by,  and  she'd 
often  been  half  a  mind  to  speak  about  it ;  but  she'd 
rather  buy  it  herself,  if  it  should  ever  come  con- 
venient ;  and  I  knew  she  would  like  to  call  it  hers  a 
little  while,  too,  for  she  always  loved  this  rock,  and 
the  beautiful,  billow}^  outlook  over  the  trees,  and  she 
had  memories  with  it. 

Now,  this  land  was  Rose  Noble's ;  a  part  of  what 


156  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

her  father  left  her,  separate  from  the  old  farm  whu  h 
was  sold  out  in  the  early  days  of  their  trouble,  and 
nobody  had  wanted  it  enough  to  give  a  good  value  for 
it,  or  it  would  probably  have  gone  after  the  rest  long 
ago ;  so  they  had  sold  some  wood,  and  paid  the  taxes, 
and  Rose  laughed  about  her  "  real  estate." 

The  other  day,  I  bought  it  of  her  in  mother's  name, 
giving  her  four  hundred  and  twenty-five  dollars.  And 
to-night  I  had  the  deed  in  my  pocket ;  and  while  we 
stood  there  on  the  Edge  Rock,  and  the  maples  were 
splendid  in  the  sunshafts  that  shot  through  their 
bosoms  and  showed  the  first  gleams  of  their  ripening 
glory,  —  while  everything  was  at  its  prettiest,  and 
mother  was  saying,  as  she  alwaj^s  did  when  she  stood 
here,  that  there  wasn't  another  spot  on  the  whole  farm 
like  it,  —  I  put  the  paper  in  her  hand,  and  told  her 
that  the  Little  Red  "Wood-lot  was  her  birthday  gift. 


INTO  GOD'S  TBEASUBE-BOX.  157 


XIV. 

INTO   god's   TREASUEE-BOX. 

I'm  sure  I  didn't  begin  to  know  what  I  was  under- 
taking when  I  set  out  to  write  down  about  the  Out- 
ings. 

Why,  there  is  no  end  to  them !  They  are  the  for- 
ever-beginnings. The  very  flow  of  the  river  of  water 
of  life,  that  cometh  out  of  the  Throne.  To  say  all 
about  them  would  be  to  make  a  Bible,  or  a  world. 
Even  all  of  them  that  there  is  in  the  very  quietest 
afe ;  for  each  touches  and  takes  fast  hold  of  the  whole. 
Besides  the  think-outings,  and  the  do-outings,  and  the 
give-outings,  —  which  are  life  and  love,  and  some 
simple  shape  of  which  we  every  one  must  discover  in 
.ourselves,  —  there  are  the  come-outings,  and  the  find- 
outings,  and  the  grow-outings,  and  the  turn-outings,  — 
which  are  the  wonderful  gift  and  dealing  and  dis- 
closure and  providence  of  God,  in  and  for  and  about 


158  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

US.  It  was  for  Life  the  Lord  bade  us  "  Watch  !  "  Not 
for  death  and  doom.  It  is  to  Life  we  are  blind  and 
unconscious ;  not  knowing  what  hour  He  doth  come. 

It  was  a  little  thing,  —  to  tell  of  after  words  like 
these,  —  that  made  me  think  of  this  so,  just  now. 

It  was  a  finding-out  of  myself.  I  have  painted  a 
little  picture. 

I  didn't  know  as  I  could.  I  learned  something 
about  it  3^ears  ago,  at  school,  as  all  the  girls  did ;  just 
as  I  learned  a  little  music,  and  left  off  practising 
graduall}^,  after  cares  came  and  kept  me  busj^,  and  the 
old  piano  gave  out,  and  everybody's  else  had  an 
octave  and  a  Half  more,  and  the  new,  beautiful  music 
was  all  written  for  the  grand  instruments*  Besides 
which,  after  Aunt  Judith  came  she  couldn't  bear  the 
noise. 

I  think  I  always  noticed  lines  and  shades,  and  had 
an  QyQ  for  what  was  true  and  in  S3'mmetry.  And 
somehow  it  must  have  been  "  mulling"  quietly  in  me, 
as  a  lesson  does,  learned  over  night  and  slept  upon ; 
gathering  to  itself  little  hints  here  and  there,  uncon- 
sciously ;     training   and   unfolding  a  possibility   that 


INTO  GOD'S  TBEASUBE-BOX.  159 

sometime  should  come  to  the  light  suddenl3\  I  sup- 
pose I  never  darned  a  stocking,  or  shaped  the  curves 
of  a  dress,  or  looped  up  a  window-curtain,  or,  more 
than  all,  set  delicate  flow^er-stems  in  branching  har- 
mony, and  made  their  bright  tints  lie  against  each 
other  in  the  accord  of  color,  so  as  to  spell  the  mean- 
ing meant,  without  this  art-instinct  which  is  the  trans- 
lation of  heavenly  language,  catching  insensibly  and 
la^^ing  up  some  new  and  beautiful  phrase. 

I  suppose  that  eye  and  touch  and  feeling  are  all 
educated,  by  the  commonest,  teasing  little  every-day 
things  ;  the  trying  to  fit  things  and  lay  them  straight ; 
the  making  of  beds  ;  the  setting  of  tables. 

I  suppose  an  orderly  room,  when  we  make  the  order, 
and  have  to  study  how,  teaches  a  lesson  in  grouping 
and  perspective,  and  Heaven  only  knows  what  more. 
That  one  caunot*trim  a  bonnet  without  learning  truths 
of  lines  and  contrasts  ;  that  doing  any  one  thing  well 
—  even  setting  stitches  and  plaiting  frills  —  puts  a 
key  into  one's  hand  to  the  opening  of  some  other  quite 
different  secret ;  and  that  we  can  never  know  what 
may  be  to  come  out  of  the  meanest  drudgery. 


160  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

The  Lord  hides  away  the  seeds  of  wonderful,  joyful 
life  in  us ;  and  we  sleep  and  wake,  night  and  day ; 
and  they  spring  up  and  grow,  we  know  not  how. 

At  any  rate,  something  put  it  into  my  head  all  at 
once  that  I  should  like  to  tr3^  to  make  the  beautiful 
lines  and  touches  that  I  studied  every  day  in  a  certain 
little  copy  of  Ellenreider's  lovely  cherub-picture  of 
the  "  Gloria  in  Excelsis."  Gertrude  lent  it  to  me 
when  she  went  away,  to  hang  in  my  room  ;  and  I  have 
looked  at  it,  and  into  it,  ever  since,  until  it  has  seemed 
to  grow  into  my  mind  and  apprehension,  and  become 
a  real  possession ;  as  if  I  could  put  my  finger  right 
upon  it  anywhere,  —  on  any  secret  of  its  beauty. 

So  now  that  I  was  rich,  and  could  afford  to  try  ex- 
periments, I  went  one  daj^  and  bought  paints  and 
brushes,  and  a  little  square  of  canvas  which  I  brought 
home  and  set  up  on  a  shelf,  and  looked  at,  wondering 
if  there  would  ever  be  an}- thing  on  it ;  if  the  little 
face  and  wings  would  really  grow  there  upon  the 
blank  priming ;  and  the  beautiful  meaning  shine  out 
at  me. 

And,  without  my  knowing  how,  or  whether  T  could 


INTO  GOD'S  TBEASUBE-BOX.  161 

ever  do  it  again,  it  has ;  and  I  have  got  the  "  Gloria 
in  Excelsis  "  for  my  very  own. 

I  have  a  feeling  that  I  could  do  other  things  in  the 
same  way  ;  that  everything  is  linked  together  ;  that 
music  and  sculpture  would  come  ;  and  that  it  is  not  so 
bad  a  matter,  after  all,  that  we  seem  to  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  many  things,  and  scarcely  to  achieve  the  one, 
in  these  short  lives  of  ours  ;  since  that  in  the  little  we 
are  so  surely  laying  hold  of  the  much ;  and  that,  in 
our  few  and  tiny  steps  upon  the  earth,  we  do  draw  the 
great  globe  itself  toward  us,  with  all  its  wealths,  in 
every  footfall. 

We  know  not,  verily,  that  which  is  laid  up  for  us. 
There  are  such  beautiful  things  put  by.  In  God's 
house,  and  in  God's  time,  there  are  such  treasures.  It 
comes  true  so,  what  I  wished  once  when  I  was  a  little 
girl,  and  mother  gave  me  some  things  out  of  an  old 
trunk  I  watched  her  looking  over.  "  If  I  could  only 
have  great  boxes  full  of  things  saved  up  to  pick  out 
from  alwaj^s  ! " 

The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  like  unto  a  householder. 

It  has  made  me  very  glad,  — with  a  new  and  large 
11 


162  PATIEN-GE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

forth-lookirag  and  expectance, — just  the  painting  of 
this  little  picture. 

I  have  got  a  little  easel  now,  in  my  window,  and 
mother  sits  b}^  knitting,  while  I  paint.  I  am  doing 
autumn  leaves,  to  burn  upon  the  walls  inside  when  the 
outside  blaze  is  over.  I  have  got  the  gold-brown  of 
the  hickor}^  and  the  deep  bronze  of  the  ash,  and  the 
amber  and  flame  of  the  maple,  and  the  shining  crim- 
son of  the  oak;  and  I  am  grouping  them  together, 
and  unravelling  their  marvellous  iuterweavings  of 
glorious  color,  and  matching  and  mocking  them  with 
umber  and  carmine,  and  sienna  and  vermilion ;  and 
finding  one  speech  in  the  dead  minerals  and  in  the 
living  leaves. 

Mother  is  so  pleased. 

But  her  pleasure  gets  a  meaning  in  it,  now  and  then, 
that  makes  it  seem  a  sadness  to  me. 

I  catch  her  thought  so  quickly  ;  before  she  has  fairly 
got  it  herself,  she  says  sometimes.  We  do  under- 
stand each  other  almost  too  well. 

It  is  in  her  face,  "  Yes ;  one  thing  more,  to  fill  up 
life,  and  to  satisfy ;  if  tlie  lonely  da^^s  should  come." 


INTO  GOD'S  TBEASUBE-BOX.  163 

A-gainst  this  look,  I  thrust,  the  other  day,  a  sudden 
word  of  blank  diversion. 

*'  Motherdie  !  What  is,  —  mostly,  —  in  Aunt  Hetty 
Maria's  dark  closet,  I  wonder?  " 

I  had  been  promising  myself  a  talk  about  this,  a 
long  while. 

"  John  Halliday." 

I  had  been  forgetting  John  Halliday  these  ten  years. 
I  never  knew  him  much.  He  was  ten  years  younger 
than  I,  and  he  came  to  Bearwood  when  he  was  seven 
or  eight  years  old,  and  I  was  out  of  my  childhood 
then,  and  had  left  off  making  the  long  play-visits  in 
which  I  should  have  come  to  know  and  care  about 
him.  Our  busy  and  troubled  days  at  home  —  with 
Aunt  Judith  and  father  —  began  not  very  long  after 
that,  and  I  only  heard  a  little  bit  here  and  there  of 
what  went  on  between  Jack,  as  she  called  him,  and 
my  Aunt  Hetty  Maria. 

He  was  away  at  school  some  years,  and  then  at  col- 
lege ;  and  then  I  know  he  went  to  Germany,  —  to 
study  professionally,  they  said ;  and  that  he  disap- 
pointed her  and  worried  her  somehow ;    and  she  waa 


164  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

Dretty  strict  with  him,  even  in  her  way  of  doing  every 
thing  for  him ;  at  any  rate,  that  they  didn't  get  ol 
together,  and  that  she  stopped  him  short  at  last,  sud- 
denly, and  called  him  home ;  but  that  he  went  away 
somewhere  again,  soon  after,  and  had  never  come  back 
to  her ;  and  that  there  had  been  a  cloud,  as  it  were, 
behind  her,  in  the  lengthening  years,  which  she  was 
afraid  to  turn  and  look  back  at.  Without  really 
knowing  anything,  or  ever  before  asking  a  word,  I  had 
felt  this  about  Aunt  Hetty  Maria ;  so  that  I  under- 
stood what  she  meant  when  she  said,  that  day,  —  "  I 
tell  you  for  I  know  ; "  and  I  was  not  a  bit  surprised  at 
mother's  answer  of  the  simple  name  :  — 

"JohnHalliday." 

"  What  did  Jack  do,  exactly,  mother?" 

"Well,  it  wasn't  so  much,  perhaps,  what  he  did  do, 
as  what  he  didn't ;  and  your  Aunt  Hetty  Maria,  — 
well,  she's  as  good  a  woman,  j^ou  know,  as  ever  grew, 
—  except,  indeed,  it  may  be  the  missionaries, — but 
there  !  some  people  haven't  any  whiskers,  and  it's  no 
use.'* 

"Whiskers!  mother  1" 


INTO  GOD'S  TBEASUBE-BOX,  165 

"  Yes ;  I've  thought  a  good  many  times  that  half 
the  troubles  in  the  world  came  of  that.  There's  two 
kinds,  you  see,  besides  the  cats' ;  outside  and  inside 
ones, — and  if  people  don't  have  them,  why,  thejA'e 
forever  knocking  their  elbows,  and  breaking  the  noses 
off  their  pitchers,  and  tearing  their  sleeves  on  door- 
latches,  and  undertaking  things  generally  that  they 
can't  get  through  with.  Your  Aunt  Hetty  Maria  was 
always  rather  apt  to  try  to  get  through  holes, — 
and  put  other  people  through,  —  that  she  hadn't 
measured. 

"Jack  came  there  when  his  mother  died,  —  Mr 
Parmenter's  only,  dear  sister  ;  and  Aunt  Hetty  Maria 
never  had  a  boy,  and  he  grew  up  to  be  just  like  their 
own ;  but  she  was  always  strict  in  her  ways,  and  more 
than  all  —  if  people  only  knew  it  — upon  herself.  She 
never  would  half  '  let  on,'  as  Emery  Ann  says,  what 
she  cared  for  anybody.  And  then  little  Mabel  died, 
and  Jack  was  all ;  and  then  she  held  him  tighter  than 
ever,  in  a  queer  way.  She  did  everything,  and  let 
him  have  everything,  really,  only  somehow,  she  took 
the  clear  comfort  out  of  it,  she  was  so  afraid  of  his 


166  PATIENCE  STBONG'8  OUTINGS. 

being  spoiled.  She  gave  him  a  good  piece  of  cloth, 
and  a  long  thread ;  only  she  put  a  pin  to  it  instead  of 
a  needle,  for  fear  he  should  make  a  botch.  She  sent 
him  to  school,  and  through  college,  and  out  to  Europe  ; 
and  he  did  pull  the  pin-head  through,  and  made  a 
pretty  big  hole  in  the  cloth ;  he  got  into  a  way  of 
having,  and  expecting,  and  spending,  more  and  more ; 
and  she  looking  forward,  all  the  same,  to  his  coming 
back  and  earning  his  living,  and  putting  a  man's 
shoulder  to  the  world's  wheel.  Especially  after  the 
hard  times  of  '57  came,  and  so  much  of  her  money 
went  in  the  great  Life  and  Trust  Company  smash. 
Then  she  had  to  draw  in ;  and  she  expected  him  to, 
rio^ht  off:  and  then  it  came  out  that  he  wanted  ever  so 
much  more  to  pay  up  with  abroad.  And  then,  at  last, 
he  got  back  ;  and  things  didn't  open  right  out  for  him, 
and  he  was  there  at  home.  Idle,  she  thought,  and 
not  in  enough  hurry  to  bestir  himself ;  and  though  she 
wouldn't  but  have  done  for  him,  she  was  too  liigh- 
spirited  for  him,  to  like  his  willingness  ;  so  she  had 
plain  words  with  him,  at  last ;  nobody  knew  what ; 
but  there  was  more  working  in  him  of  independence, 


INTO  GOD'S  TBEA8UBE-B0X.  167 

may  be,  than  showed,  or  than  could  well  stand  being 
doubted ;  and  he  spoke  back,  and  took  himself  off ; 
and  she's  never  seen  him  from  that  day  to  this.  Once 
in  a  while  there  has  come  a  letter  from  somewhere, 
just  to  let  ner  know  that  he  was  alive,  and  not  bear- 
ing any  ill-will ;  but  no  accounts  of  what  he  was 
doing,  or  word  of  coming  home  ;  only  that  in  the  last 
of  the  war  he  was  a  surgeon  in  the  army  under  Sher- 
man ;  she  heard  from  him  at  Chattanooga,  and  he 
came  round  in  the  Grand  March  to  Savannah ;  that 
was  the  last  she  knew  of  him  ;  and  she's  proud  of  him, 
and  worried  out  of  her  life  about  him,  and  turning 
her  back  all  the  time  on  something  she  can't  bear  to 
look  at  or  make  up  her  conscience  about,  in  her  deal- 
ing with  him ;  and  she's  grown  an  old  woman,  and 
her  hair  and  her  teeth  have  all  gone,  in  these  ten 
years." 

"  Where  was  he  before  he  went  into  the  war?" 
'^  There  never  came  two  letters  from  the  same  place. 
I  suppose  that  was  a-purpose." 


168  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS, 


XV. 


INTO   THE   FAIRY   STORY, 


"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  mumbled  Aunt  Hetty  Maria, 
"  when  I  can't  tell  which  is  teeth,  and  which  is  bread- 
and-butter  ! " 

Aunt  Hetty  Maria  had  come  down  again  for  a  fort- 
night. To  go  to  the  dentist's,  this  time.  I  went  with 
her,  and  it  was  pretty  funny. 

"  I've  come  for  the  permanent  set,"  said  my  aunt  to 

Dr.  T ,  whom  she  had   not  seen  for  three  years, 

when  she  took  ether  and  pulled  his  hair.  "  I  never 
wore  the  temporary  ones.  They  were  too  temper-y. 
I  lost  all  my  patience  with  'em.  They  kept  me  think- 
ing of  the  '  wailing  and  gnashing,'  and  so  of  all  my 
sins.     But  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  learn  how,  now." 

When  we  asked  her  what  for,  she  wouldn't  tell. 
She  was  queer  all  through  that  visit.  When  we  re- 
minded her  of  what   she   said  when   she   threw  Dr. 


INTO  THE  FAIMT  STORY.  169 

T 's  first  work  across  the  room,  and  "  took  to  her 

gums  again,"  she  only  answered,  "  Well,  I  couldn't  use 
'em,  —  it  was  only  looks  ;  and  who  cared  tJien  f  " 

When  we  asked  her  what  had  made  the  difference 
and  changed  her  mind,  and  who  cared  now,  the  teeth 
and  the  bread-and-butter  were  in  the  way. 

When  we  saw  that  she  wanted  to  get  off,  of  course 
we  didn't  ask  her  any  more.  But  something  had  ev- 
idently made  a  change  in  Aunt  Hetty  Maria,  in  more 
than  this  one  thing.  Every  once  in  a  while  she  would 
break  out  with  singing  to  herself  some  line  of  the  old 
song,  "  There's  nae  luck  about  the  house,  "  "  There's 
nae  luck  at  a'."  She  couldn't  remember  all  tht  words  ; 
but  the  music  ran  in  her  head,  she  said,  and  so  she 
filled  it  out,  —  between  the  teeth,  —  with  any  sort  of 
syllables. 

"  Te  i  de  urn  te  diddle  um 
Te  diddle  dum  te  —  dair; 
His  very  step  has  music  in't. 
As  he  comes  up  the  stair  ! 

"De  do  de  rol  de  diddle  ol 
De  do  de  rol  de  —  dore; 
Give  me  my  cloak,  I'll  —  du  de  del, 
I'll  see  him  come  ashore  ! " 


170  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

She  kept  practising  wliat  she  called  her  "  wailing 
and  gnashing,"  with  crackers  and  apples,  and  bits  of 
this  and  that,  between  her  visits  to  the  dentist's  and 
his  little  filings  and  fittings,  till  we  thought  she  would 
ruin  her  appetite  and  digestion  by  the  time  she  got 
the  full  use  of  her  teeth ;  but  she  was  in  sucn  a  hurry  ; 
she  "  wouldn't  go  blundering  back  to  Bearwood  not 
knowing  what  order  of  natural  history  she  belonged 
to,  or  whether  her  bones  were  outside  or  in.  Here, 
there  was  nobody  to  notice ;  but  there,  there  was 
never  any  knowing  who  might  come." 

She  had  one  little  double  tooth  on  each  side  left 
out ;  she  didn't  care  ;  her  own  were  so  for  five  and 
twenty  years  while  the  six  in  front  were  good ;  and 
she  wanted  to  look  natural.  And  the  left  large  inci- 
sor must  lap  over  its  mate  ;    her  old  ones  did. 

Something  came  out  in  Aunt  Hetty  Maria's  face, 
with  her  new  teeth,  which  had  never  been  so  plain 
there  before.  It  was  a  sweetness  and  openness ;  the 
curve  of  her  lips  lost  something  that  had  grown  set 
and  hard  in  it. 

I  have  noticed  in  people  who  have  had  this  aid  and 


INTO  THE  FAIBY  STOBT.  171 

replenishment  of  art,  that  almost  always  some  expres- 
sion comes  to  light,  suiting  so  curiously  with  all  the 
other  features  that  it  is  like  a  .revelation.  I  know  one 
woman  who  looks  sly ;  and  a  man  whose  jaws,  filled 
out  with  their  new  furnishing,  gleam  cruel,  like  a 
tiger's.  I  can  think  of  others  who  have  had  disfigure- 
ment and  disguise  replaced  with  what  seems  more 
truly  to  belong  to  them,  and  to  have  been  intended 
from  the  first ;  faces  that  look  more  gentle,  generous, 
or  delicate.  And  I  do  not  believe,  somehow,  that  any- 
thing can  come  out  of  us,  by  any  accident,  but  what  is 
in. 

When  Aunt  Hetty  Maria  was  packing  her' trunk  to 
go  away,  she  spoke  out ;  her  mouth  was  made  up  to 
it  by  that  time. 

"  I've  had  a  letter  from  Jack  Halliday." 
We  might  have  known  it  was  coming,  even  before 
Aunt  Hetty  Maria,  and  the  teeth,  and  the  singing. 
Why  else  did  we  get  talking  of  it,  that  day,  just  a 
little  while  ago,  —  mother  and  I?  Things  in  this 
world  always  come  marked  with  a  "  to  be  continued." 
They  never  rise  up  suddenly  and  go  right  down  again 


172  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

into  their  graves,  like  the  South  American  mummies 
they  tell  of  in  the  earthquake.  And  if  they  did  do  it, 
I  don't  believe  it  .would  be  the  last  of  them. 

" '  When  the  chestnuts  are  ripe  in  the  old  woods, 
and  the  new  cider  is  making/  —  I  expect  —  some  —  to 
hear  from  him  again." 

We  knew  that  first  part  was  in  quotation  marks. 
She  said  it  as  we  say  words  that  have  been  laid  by  in 
our  hearts. 

"  And  then  you  have  got  to  come  up  to  Dearwood." 

"  Why,  it  will  be  almost  right  away,  auntie." 

"  Yes  ;  almost  right  away."  It  sounded  like  music 
and  dancing,  —  the  tone  she  spoke  it  in.  Like  the 
music  and  dancing  the  oldest  son  heard  in  the  para- 
ble. 

"Now,  where  is  my  second-best  cap-box?  Pa- 
tience, won't  you  just  see  whether  Emery  Ann  has 
done  pressing  out  that  piece  of  bobbinet  ?  And  give 
her  this  yard  of  wide  black  silk  for  an  apron,  and 
these  two  pocket-handkerchiefs." 

And  this  was  the  last  she  would  say  to  us  then 
about  John  Halliday. 


INTO   THE  FAIBY  STOUT.  173 

It  was  two  weeks  later  when  we  got  word  and  went 
up. 

The  old  house  was  all  open  and  sunny.  Aunt 
Hetty  Maria  had  delicate  little  lavender  ribbons  in  her 
breakfast  caps,  and  white  satin  ones  for  dinner  and 
evening.  She  had  left  off  the  old  black  lace  and  pur- 
ple, except  when  she  was  dusting  or  cooking.  She 
looked  as  I  remembered  her  fifteen  years  before. 

It  all  went  right  through  me,  that  morning  when  he 
came.  Just  as  if  I  had  been  John,  and  Aunt  Hetty 
Maria,  and  myself,  all  at  the  same  identical  time,  and 
as  if  I  had  two  or  three  different  memories,  and  two  or 
three  different  ten  years  were  behind  me.  We  can't 
help  giving  and  taking.  We  can't  shut  ourselves  up  in 
our  own  separate  j^ears  if  we  try.  Then,  indeed,  there 
really  would  be  only  the  threescore  and  ten,  after  all ; 
and  God  never  thought  of  stinting  us  so.  He  need 
not  have  made  so  great  a  world  and  filled  it  so  full, 
if  nobody  was  to  get  more  out  of  it  than  that. 

All  John's  pride  and  resolve,  and  Aunt  Hetty 
Maria's  secret  tenderness  and  patience  and  pain ;  the 
workj  and  success,  and  the  waiting ;  the  mistakes  and 


174  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  GUTINQS. 

the  mercy ;  the  long  silences  and  the  shield  that  had 
been  over  them ;  the  good  end  and  the  gladness ;  I 
entered  into  them  all.  They  had  been  gathering  and 
going  on  in  ten  years  that  were  also  of  my  life. 

*'  I  never  meant  to  come  back  till  I  could  pay  it," 
—  he  told  Aunt  Hetty  Maria.  "It  was  money-pay 
and  money-pride  at  first ;  but  it  changed  to  something 
different  as  the  time  went  on.  The  thing  you  really 
cared  for  ;  I  found  that  out ;  the  proof  that  the  money's 
worth  was  in  me.  I  was  only  afraid  —  of  the  Boston 
papers.  That  some  day  I  might  see  your  name,  and 
know  it  was  too  late." 

"  But  what  about  your  name.  Jack?  Did  you  think 
I  wouldn't  look  for  that?" 

"  My  name  has  been  in  the  papers,  now  and  then,  I 
guess.  Most  men's  have,  of  late  years.  But  I  cut 
the  head  and  tail  off,  and  threw  them  in  the  fire,  in  the 
first  place ;  as  the  White  Cat  did  in  the  fairy  story, 
when  she  wanted  to  be  turned  into  something  better,'* 
Jack  answered,  lightly. 

When  he  said  that,  I  jumped  right  off  my  chair.  As 
true  as  I  live,  it  never  came  into  my  head  before.     I 


INTO   THE  FAIBY  STOBY.  175 

hadn't  remembered  it  for  years  and  years  ;  but  now  it 
flashed  across  me,  —  the  boy's  long  name  as  I  had 
heard  it  some  time  when  he  fii'st  came  to  Uncle  Par- 
menter's. 

John  Robert  Haile  Halliday. 

"What's  that  for,  Patience?"  said  John,  as  I  sat 
down  again. 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  a  good  plan.  Or  aright  plan," 
said  I,  catching  my  breath  from  my  surprise,  and 
speaking  quite  decided  and  resentful.  "  What  if  it 
didn't  turn  out  so  wonderfully  much  better,  after  all, 
and  the  head  and  tail  had  to  be  raked  out  of  the  ashes 
and  tacked  on  again?  Or  if  some  people,  —  some- 
hody^  —  had  come  to  like  the  middle  part  best?  As 
they  couldn't  ever,  perhaps,  like  the  rest  of  it,  or  any 
name,  again?     I  think  it  was  too  bad  upon  them !  " 

John  came  right  over  to  me  where  I  sat,  and  delib- 
erately pinched  me.  So  that  nobody  else  could  see, 
however. 

"  Patience  Strong  !  You're  rather  confused  in  your 
analogy,  but  —  you  know  a  good  deal  too  much!"  he 
whispered. 


176  PATIEIiCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS, 

Everybody  knew  it  pretty  soon,  though.  It  was  a 
turn-outing ;  such  as  they  pretend  to  keep  for  stories  ; 
but  such  as  happens  every  day  in  the  life  that  stories 
are  made  up  out  of.  And  I  had  been  in  every  bit  of 
it ;  iBrst  one  part  and  then  another.  Whose  stovy  was 
it,  I  should  like  to  know,  more  than  mine ;  or  half  so 
much,  —  seeing  that  tJiey  couldn't  possibly  be  on  both 
sides  of  themselves ! 

It  was  a  little  hard  for  Aunt  Hetty  Maria  at  the 
very  first,  to  be  sure  ;  just  as  if  she  had  only  got  him 
back  to  give  him  right  away  again ;  but  almost  before 
she  knew  it,  she  was  taking  Rose  straight  into  her 
heart  and  home,  planning  which  rooms  would  do  for 
her,  and  thinking  whether  she  had  better  put  up  red 
curtains  or  white  ones  in  the  long  chamber ;  and  that 
"  it  would  have  to  be  before  the  dreary  weather  came, 
—  she  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  a  wedding  in  Novem- 
ber ; —  mightn't  we  make  it  out  for  the  thirtieth? 
There  was  something  so  glad  about  October;  the 
very  sound  of  it  was  yellow  and  bright,  like  fraits 
and  sunshine  and  tingling  juices  and  clear,  frosty 
air." 


INTO   THE  FAIMT  STOBT.  177 

All  this,  taking  it  for  granted  that  Dearwood  should 
be  their  first  home  ;  that  she  had  a  right  to  them  both. 
All  talked  over,  again  and  again,  while  Dr.  John  was 

down  at  M making  "  head  and  tail  "  of  it  as  best 

he  could,  with  the  Nobles. 

And  then  he  brought  Rose  up  for  a  three  days'  visit 
to  his  mother  ;  and  she,  in  her  own  dear  little  way, set- 
tled everything  as  she  chose. 

"  Let  us  come  back  and  build  our  own  nest,  with 
you  to  help  us,  please,"  she  said  to  Aunt  Hetty  Maria, 
when  Jack  was  out  of  the  room.  "  Don't  you  tire 
yourself  all  out  alone,  and  take  away  all  the  good  of 
it.  You  see  we  should  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  sit 
right  down  in  a  finished  place,  and  that's  always  dis- 
appointing. People  that  do  the  making  ready,  put 
thoughts  and  thoughts  into  it,  one  after  another,  with 
every  little  fixing  and  touching ;  and  then,  just  in  a 
minute,  the  folks  that  come  are  shown  in,  and  it's  all 
over.  Let's  have  the  thoughts  and  the  comfort  to- 
gether, please." 

A.nd   so  it  was  the  nicest    nest-building  that   ever 

was.     We  were  all  there,  and   there  was   plent\^  of 
12 


178  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS. 

« 
room   for  us   all,  beside   the   long   chamber   and  the 

*'  little  bay,"  that  we  were  fixing  up. 

And  they  had  been  married  a  fortnight,  and  Rose 
could  speak  her  mind,  and  say  how  she  wanted  things : 
and  John  Halliday's  books  and  pictures,  and  Rose's 
piano  and  plants  and  wedding  presents  had  all  come  ; 
and  we  were  nailing,  and  hanging,  and  consulting,  and 
placing;  and  nobody  did  anything  that  all  the  rest 
didn't  stand  round  and  admire.  And  Hannah  Ferson 
—  Aunt  Hetty  Maria's  Hannah  —  whenever  she  came 
to  look,  said  it  was  "  so  pleasant  and  folksy  !  "  And 
Aunt  Hetty  Maria  herself  was  everywhere  ;  and  every- 
body was  calling  her  from  everywhere  else,  to  ask  her 
this  or  show  her  that. 

"  Auntie !  " 

"  Mother ! " 

''  Hetty  Maria  !  " 

"  Mis'  Parmenter !  '* 
came     from     upstairs,    downstairs,    and    the    ladj's 
chamber. 

"Here  I  am,  — all  four  of  me!"  she  would  cail 
back.     And  in  a  minute,  all  four  of  her  would  do  there. 


INTO    TUE  FAIBY  STOEY.  179 

*'  She  was  just  the  spryest !  "  old  Mrs.  Whitgift  said, 
making  the  little  entiy  carpet,  and  being  stepped  over 
twenty  times  a  day. 

"  Nobody  gave  me  a  silver  pitchfork,  after  all,"  said 
Rose  Halliday,  up  at  the  top  of  a  flight  of  steps,  hang- 
ing a  basket,  and  looking  for  scissors  to  cut  the  cord. 

Jack  made  a  stride  across  the  room  to  where  they 
laj^,  and  a  long  arm  up  to  her  to  give  them. 

•'  And  I  don't  know  that  I  really  see  the  need,"  she 
added,  "  if  this  is  to  last." 

I  guess  it  will  last,  —  all  the  help  and  comfort  John 
Halliday  can  give  her,  —  to  the  end  of  his  life. 

I  have  had  the  beauty  of  it,  —  I  who  never  was 
married,  or  like  to  be  ;  and  it  makes  my  heart  warm. 

And  mother  and  I  are  going  home  again,  now. 


180  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINQS, 


XVI. 


WITH    THE     SUNDAY    STRAYS. 


It  is  strange  bow  one  little  glimpse,  one  little 
taste,  —  of  another  person's  living  or  gladness,  — 
stays  by  you,  and  opens  the  door  toward  all  the  rest. 

Every  morning,  now,  when  the  north-west  air  is 
crisp  with  mountain  frosts,  and  the  smell  of  ripeness 
comes  with  every  stir,  and  the  sun-glory  is  keen  in  the 
clean-swept  atmosphere,  and  the  crown  of  the  year's 
joy  lies  upon  the  earth,  I  think,  the  first  thing,  of  the 
pleasantness  up  there  at  Dearwood ;  of  the  new, 
bright  home  there;  or,  rather,  of  the  fresh,  beautiful 
soul  in  the  old.  Of  John  and  Rose  standing  alwaj'^s 
on  the  morning-threshold,  looking  into  the  years 
together,  as  we  look  into  the  hours  when  the  day  is 
prime ;  of  the  cosey  breakfast,  and  the  after-breakfast 
settling ;  of  Rose  with  her  work-basket  in  her  window 
among  her  plants ;    of  Doctor  Halliday  reading ;   of 


.     WITH  TEE  SUNDAY  Sl'BAYS.  181 

Aunt  Hett}^  Maria  looking  in  every  little  while,  as 
she  goes  up  and  down,  upon  this  new  acquisition  of 
hers  of  young,  beautiful  life ;  continually  wanting 
fresh  little  views  of  it,,  as  we  do  of  pretty  and  com- 
fortable things  we  have  just  got  and  brought  home. 

When  the  night  draws  in,  and  the  fire  is  cheerful, 
and  the  winter-lamp  is  lighted  that  has  been  set  by 
through  the  warm,  twilighted  evenings,  and  all  the 
comfort  that  has  ever  been  in  one's  life,  or  that  one 
has  read  of,  seems  to  wrap  itself  around  one  in  a 
delicious  fulness,  —  then  again  I  think  of  Dearwood, 
and  of  all  the  long,  happy  winter  that  is  before  them 
there ;  before  them  to  whom  a  single  hour  together 
was  but  a  little  while  ago  so  much.  Of  the  pretty 
worsted  work  Rose  meant  to  do,  that  she  never  had 
had  time  for  in  her  busy,  careful  life  at  home ;  of 
Aunt  Hetty  Maria  knitting,  and  John  drawing,  or 
wood-turning,  —  for  he  does  all  sorts  of  charming, 
ingenious  things,  —  and  of  all  the  pleasant  choice  of 
thought,  and  talk,  and  occupation,  which  that  free 
time  gives  when  there  are  no  old  things  to  mend,  no 
hurry  of  providing,  no  anxious  complications  to  un- 


182  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

ravel,  such  as  come  witli  the  living  on,  —  but  dl  is 
new  and  plentiful,  and  smooth  with  the  smoothness 
of  that  which  is  unbegun. 

Why,  it  is  beautiful  just  to  know  of  it !  And  they, 
after  all,  can't  more  than  know  of  it  themselves. 
Possession  is  onlj'-  intimacy  of  knowledge.  The  goo'T 
and  the  beauty  of  it  is  the  fact  in  God's  world.  1 
think  that  is  the  blessedness  that  foretells  itself  in  the 
*'  knowing  as  we  are  known."  Then  everybody's  jo}- 
will  be  full}^  ours.  Then  they  shall  sit  down  by  fiftic* 
and  bj"  hundreds,  and  one  bread  shall  be  given  to  al!  ; 
and  of  the  fragments  that  remain  shall  be  taken  up 
baskets  and  baskets  full ;  and  worlds,  perhaps,  shall  be 
fed  with  the  crumbs  that  fall  from  the  Master's  table. 

But  the  worst  of  it  is,  that,  if  I  don't  look  out,  I 
shan't  do  my  own  living.  That  is  the  reason  wh}^  we 
ma}^,  now,  see  only  in  part.  It  is  so  easy  to  abide  in 
that  love  which  is  onh^  loving  imagination ;  the  love 
of  act  ma}'  be  waiting,  meanwhile,  in  our  own  unlived 
da3's. 

My  days  ought  to  be  very  full  ihis  wintei  ;  so  much 
crowds  upon  me  to  do  and  to  care  for. 


WITH  THE  SUNDAY  STB  AYS.  183 

Now  that  I  have  found  out  I  can  paint,  I  think  of 
so  many  people  who  can't  buy  pictures  that  I  might 
make  them  for.  I  gave  Mrs.  Shreve  a  maple  branch 
ci'Os,sed  by  a  stem  of  sumach.  She  hung  it  over  hei 
mantel,  and  said  it  was  as  good  as  a  fire.  I  must  dc 
something  for  Seelie  Rubb.  And  I  want  to  copy  the 
Mater  Admirabilis,  with  the  lily  and  the  distaff,  for 
my  dear  little  mother,  at  Christmas  time. 

Besides  that,  the  new  horse-railroad  is  opened  at 
last,  as  far  as  Hibben's  Lane.  Only  five  minutes' 
walk  from  our  door.  Why,  we  are  almost  city  peo- 
ple !  But  mother  and  I  don't  go  in  much.  At  first 
I  thought  we  shouldn't  be  much  concerned.  I  didn't 
worry  about  the  Sunday  people,  and  the  fruit-trees, 
and  the  gardens,  as  some  of  the  neighbors  did.  In 
fact,  I  have  had  so  many  other  things  to  take  up  my 
mind,  that  I  really  thought  very  little  about  it,  until 
all  at  once  when  we  got  home  from  Dearwood,  we 
found  that  the  cars  were  to  run,  and  that  we  were  to 
be  Metropolitans  the  very  next  Monday.  Things 
always  do  get  finished  up,  or  broken  off,  or  changed 
somehow,  while  you're  gone. 


184  PATIENCE  STUONG'S  OUTINGS, 

It  has  come  to  me  since  —  the  force  of  it  —  talking 
with  Seelie  Rubb.  She  was  here  one  cla}^  last  week, 
to  cut  m}^  new  brown  empress  cloth.  It's  just  — 
more  outings ;  these  very  Sunday  outings. 

"I'm  so.  glad,"  Seelie  said,  "of  these  new  horse- 
cars.  Susan  came  out  last  Sunda}^,  with  her  husband 
and  two  of  her  children,  to  drink  tea.  The  other 
two  are  coming  next  time.  Wh}",  it  seemed  almost 
like  Thanksgiving.  Mother  said  she  didn't  know  as 
she  should  ever  have  used  her  best  cups  and  saucers 
again  —  they'd  been  put  awa}"  so  long.  They're  real, 
beautiful  china.  Miss  Patience ;  and  the  plates ; 
there's  only  seven  left  of  them^  but  they've  each 
got  a  separate  figure.  There's  currants  on  one,  and 
strawberries  on  another,  and  cherries,  and  plums, 
and  peaches,  and  grapes,  and  a  cut  pomegranate ; 
and  with  ever}'-  fruit  there's  a  little  blossom  of  its 
own  dropped  on  one  side.  Mother  sa3's  it  always 
makes  her  feel  like  people  again  to  set  them  out." 

Seelie  set  up  the  shoulder-puff  of  ni}^  sleeve  half  an 
inch  higher,  as  she  spoke,  giving  an  air,  I  suppose, 
more  "  like  people  "  to  my  plain,  winter  dress,  than  it 


WITH  THE  SUNDAY  STB  AYS.  185 

might  have  had  but  for  the  little  accompanying  puff 
and  set-up  of  her  spirits,  as  she  told  about  the 
plates.  . 

"That  isn't  too  high,  is  it?"  I  asked,  a  little 
anxiously. 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,  miss ;  the  higher  and  squarer  the 
better,  now.  Why,  they  actually  put  little  crutches 
under  their  shoulders,  somehow,  they  say,  to  raise 
them  up.  And  what  with  the  buckram  fronts,  and 
the  panniers  behind,  and  other  things  that  they  just 
whisper  about,  —  why,  besides  needing  to  be  a  quali- 
fied architect  and  engineer  before  you  can  be  a  real 
dress-maker,  I  aint  truly  sure,  sometimes,  that  it  isn't 
a  downright  wickedness  altogether  !  " 

"  People  talk,"  said  I,  "  about  Boston  not  being 
finished.-  I  wonder  if  the  womeii  ever  will  be. 
They've  been  added  on  to  and  taken  off  from,  and 
lengthened  out  and  cut  short,  and  humped  up  and 
flattened  down,  and  I  don't  know  how  many  different 
things,  since  I  can  remember.  I  wonder  if  they'll 
ever  find  out  what  is  just  right  and  prettiest,  and 
stop  there  and  be  comfortable." 


186  PATIENCE  STRONG'S    OUTINGS. 

"  No,  indeed,"  said  Seelie  Rubb,  with  a  simple  little 
consternation  in  her  voice  at  such  a  foolish  looking 
for. 

"  Do  you  know,  Seelie,"  I  said,  soberly,  "  that 
when  I  hear  these  things,  I  feel  as  if  I  saw  the 
'  abomination  of  desolation  standing  in  the  holy 
place'?  And  I  can  seem  to  understand  the  '  woe'  to 
those  who  shall  be  mothers  '  in  those  days ! '  " 

"It  is  pretty  bad,  Miss  Patience,"  little  Seelie 
repeated,  shaking  her  head.  "  And  it  does  make 
me  feel  wicked,  learning  to  make  a  trade  of  it.  Why, 
it  isn't  hardly  much  better,  seems  to  me,  —  some  of 
it,  —  than  selling  liquor  to  the  men  !  " 

"  Only  you  work  for  the  plain  people,  Seelie ;  it 
doesn't  touch  3^our  conscience  quite  so  closely.  And 
you  don't  contrive  the  fashions,  you  know,  to  lead  the 
silly  women  captive." 

(><-  Why,  Miss  Patience,  there  arerCt  any  plain 
people !  The  delaines  and  the  alpacas  have  to  be 
humped  up  and  flounced  out,  just  as  much  as  the  silks 
and  the  poplins.  And  there's  just  where  the  wicked- 
ness comes  in  —  or  out,  at   least.     It  isn't  so  much 


WITH  THE  SUNDAY  STB  ATS.  187 

for  the  rich  women,  who  only  drive  to  the  dress 
maker's,  and  give  their  orders ;  but  I  know  lots  of 
mothers  and  girls  who  have  to  spend  all  their  time 
and  their  brains  on  the  home-made  things,  and  more 
money,  besides,  than  they've  any  business  to.  A 
merino  gown,  or  a  poplin-alpaca,  isn't  much ;  but  by 
the  time  you've  got  the  buttons,  and  the  ribbons,  and 
the  braid,  and  the  haircloth,  and  have  spent  a  week 
putting  it  together,  it  gives  you  a  feeling  in  the  pit  of 
your  stomach  as  if  you'd  got  a  broken  commandment 
there." 

"  But  about  your  sister,  and  the  horse-railroad. 
How  nice  it  is,  —  this  coming  out  to  Sunday  home- 
teas,  —  for  the  city  people  ! " 

"  Why,  you  don't  know ! "  said  Seelie.  "I  go 
down  to  church  in  the  car,  sometimes,  now,  it's  such 
a  long  walk ;  and  the  fathers  and  mothers,  and  little 
children  that  get  in  and  out,  with  their  hands  full  and 
hearts  full  of  the  country,  just  this  once  a  week,  —  it's 
beautiful !  It  makes  me  think  of  the  Lord  walking  in 
the  corn-fields.  And  it's  true  for  more  than  the  walk- 
ing, too,  I'm   afraid.     I   guess   the   poor  things  are 


188  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

pretty  well  a-hungered,  some  of  them,  before  they  get 
back.     They  don't  all  have  home-teas  to  come  to." 

"  They  ought  to,  Seelie,  somehow  !  " 

That  was  my  first  thought  about  it ;  and  it  sta3^ed 
by,  although  I  had  to  turn  it  over  awhile  before  I 
could  quite  see  the  New  Testament  part  without  the 
queerness. 

I  donH  want  to  be  crazy-queer,  about  anything ;  and 
I  know  it's  no  use  to  expect  to  provide  for  all  the 
Sunday  strays,  and  that  it  wouldn't  alwa^^s  do  if  you 
could ;  but  then  to  think  of  the  3'oung  fathers  and 
mothers,  —  week-workers,  —  bringing  out  the  little 
children  into  the  blessed  country  on  the  day  of  the 
Son  of  Man,  and  going  back,  any  of  them,  worn  and 
hungry !  He  alwaj^s  had  compassion  on  the  multi- 
tudes, and  cared  lest,  possibly,  there  might  any  faint 
by  the  way.  If  we  could  get  out  of  this  world  into 
the  nearest  edge  of  the  heavenly  places,  once  in  a 
while,  would  the  angels  shut  their  doors,  I  wonder? 
Wouldn't  they  rather  take  us  in  and  feed  us  with  the 
bread  of  the  kingdom?  I  think  we  should  look  for 
them  to  do  so,  and  that  our  idea  of  the  heaven  we  may 


WITH  THE  SUNDAY  STRAYS.  189 

go  into  by  and  by,  is,  first  of  all,  of  somebody  coming 
to  meet  us. 

I  thought  and  thought,  till  I  felt  there  was  surely 
something,  in  the  way  of  a  loaf,  for  me  to  do.  And 
that  was  the  beginning. 

Mother  and  I  talked  it  over.  And  so,  Saturday,  we 
baked  a  basket  of  crisp  gingerbread  and  fried  a  panful 
of  doughnuts,  and  Sunday  morning  we  set  out  a  pitcher 
of  milk  from  the  milking.  And  then  we  were  all 
ready ;  if  the  little  children  did  come  along. 

Then,  being  all  ready,  I  began  to  be  afraid  they 
wouldn't  come,  —  our  way.  So,  about  three  o'clock,  I 
said  to  mother :  — 

"  Motherdie  !  I  believe  I'll  put  on  my  hat  and  shawl, 
and  walk  down  toward  the  head  of  the  lane,  and  see 
what  I  can  see." 

And  mother  laid  her  spectacles  down  on  the  win- 
dow-sill, and  smoothed  out  her  lap,  saying  :  — 

"  So  I  would.  They  might  turn  off  the  other  road, 
by  the  brook ;  and  that  would  be  a  pity,  seeing  the 
doughnuts  and  the  gingerbread  are  up  here ;  besides 
the  lane,  that  of  course  they  wouldn't  know  of" 


190  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

We  had  really  began  to  expect  some  special  "  they." 

It  was  a  lovel}^  late  autumn  day.  It  seemed  as  if 
the  sun  had  done  his  summer  work,  and  the  spare 
fragments  of  his  glory  were  flung  down  upon  us  for 
pure  joy.  As  if  human  creatures  might  have  them  all, 
now  that  the  grain  was  ripe  and  the  grass  gone,  and 
the  fruit  mellow.     It  was  like  "  after  the  party." 

I  met  them  just  there,  hy  the  brook  ;  or  rather  I  saw 
them  comiug,  and  managed  that  they  should  overtake 
me  with  my  face  toward  home,  as  I  stood  and  picked 
some  bits  of  bright  leaves  out  of  the  hedge. 

They  came  up  chattering,  —  the  little  ones.  I  had 
been  puzzling  what  I  could  saj^  if  they  didn't  take  our 
road ;  indeed,  what  I  could  exactly  say  if  they  did. 
But  you  alwaj^s  see  as  j^ou  come  to  it. 

"  Let's  go  this  way,"  says  the  biggest  girl.  "  Down 
here,  where  this  pretty  water  goes." 

"  No,"  saj^s  the  boy,  sturdily.  "  I  don't  care  for 
the  water.  I  saw  a  squirrel  up  here  on  the  wall.  I 
want  to  see  where  7ie  goes  to." 

"  It's  quieter  this  wa}',"  suggests  the  man. 

*'  And  sunnier  this,"  replies  the  woman. 


WITH  THE  SUNDAY  STB  ATS.  191 

*'  Well,  mollier,  what  do  you  say?     Sa}'  quick !  " 

These  last  were  evidently  words  of  habit  with  the 
husband,  —  spoken  always  in  that  smiling  way  and 
cheery  tone,  —  meaning :  — 

"  All  you  have  to  do  is  to  settle  your  own  wish. 
My  way's  yours.  And  I'm  not  in  the  least  bit  of  a 
hurry.     So  —  say  quick  I  " 

I  took  it  to  myself ;  feeling  in  such  a  hurry  lest  they 
should  choose  the  other  road. 

So  I  "  said  quick  "  just  what  came  into  my  head. 

"  If  you  want  to  take  the  children  a  pleasant  walk, 
ma'am,  I  can  show  you  a  beautiful  green  lane  up  here 
a  little  way  that  leads  down  into  the  woods." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  !  Come,  James,  we'll  go  this  way, 
if  this  lady  is  so  kind." 

So  we  walked  on  together,  and  mother,  looking  out 
of  her  window,  saw  me  coming  up,  just  as  if  I  had 
been  to  meet  Eliphalet's  folks  down  at  the  cars.  I  al- 
most caught  myself  calling  up  to  her,  — "  Yes,  they've 
come  !  "  They  were  so  exactly  the  very  people  we 
had  been  looking  for. 

Of  course  I  didn't  suppose  they  were  hungry  yet, 


192  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

and  I  couldn't  do  everything  all  at  once.  I  showed 
them  down  the  green  lane,  and  left  them  to  find  their 
own  way  and  their  own  happiness  by  themselves  ;  only 
I  did  just  bethink  myself  to  turn  back  and  say  to  the 
elder  girl,  lest  they  should  happen  to  get  out  by  the 
turnpike,  and  so  round  :  — 

"  Come  back  this  way,  dear,  and  stop  a  minute,  and 
I  will  give  you  some  flowers." 

So  we  were  sure  of  our  company  now,  mother  and  I ; 
and  we  went  and  sugared  a  plate  of  doughnuts,  and 
had  mugs  handy  for  the  children ;  and  then  I  sat  down 
again  and  went  on  reading  to  her  out  of  the  "  Schon- 
berg-Cotta  Family." 


INTO  OTHEB  PEOPLE'S  BUSINESS,         193 


XVII. 

INTO  OTHER  PEOPLE'S  BUSINESS. 

So  that  began  it.  And  now,  as  I  said,  I  have  plenty 
to  plan  and  to  do.  Because,  although  the  pleasant  au- 
tumn weather  is  soon  over,  and  the.  winter-time  is  no 
time  for  Sunday-outings,  yet  I  know  how  it  will  be  when 
the  spring  comes  ;  and  how  Fast  Day,  and  May  Day, 
and  every  day  that  they  can  get,  will  be  bringing  them, 
—  those  that  I  have  got  acquainted  with  (  and  it  is 
wonderful  how  one  gets  on  in  any  particular  world  of 
people  when  one  once  begins  with  one  or  two),  and 
many  more. 

And  they  shall  all  be  welcome.  "We  shall  have  to 
bake  bigger  baskets  of  gingerbread,  and  fry  huger  pans 
of  doughnuts,  and  keep  out  whole  bowls  of  milk ;  but 
there  shall  not  one  of  them  go  by  our  door  wishfi .  or 
weary. 

And  it  gives  the  chance  for  other  things.    One  doing 

13 


194  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTIXGS. 

lights  the  way  to  the  next.  All  the  little  paths  ami 
aisles  toward  the  light  of  the  Great  Love  open  into 
each  other. 

There  are  books  and  pictures  and  things  to  look  at. 
for  the  fathers  and  mothers,  and  the  little  children. 
Books  to  lend  too ;  ihej  like  so  to  take  something 
home.  So  I  have  got  plain-bound  copies,  and  copies 
second-hand,  nicely  covered,  —  quite  a  bookshelf  full, 

—  of  pleasant,  useful  reading,  on  purpose;  and  it  is 
nice  to  have  plenty  of  money  to  do  this  with  so  comfort- 
ably. I  buy  cheaply,  and  make  the  most ;  for  I  like  to 
keep  the  feeling  of  being  rich  behind  my  doing,  as  long 
as  I  can.  Some  things  mi'-st  cost ;  the  stereoscopic 
views,  for  instance.  I  have  two  glasses,  and  a  great 
many  pictures ;  I  can  never  have  too  many  of  these. 
Why,  when  they  get  out  here,  —  these  friends  of  mine, 

—  which  is  as  far  as  they  will  ever  get,  most  of  them, 
in  point  of  fact,  —  I  can  take  them  right  on  into  all 
the  beautiful  unknown  places  of  the  wide  world.  Into 
the  Alp-heights,  and  the  Yo-Semite ;  to  Niagara  and 
Trenton  and  Mount  Washington  ;  up  the  Saguenay  and 
the  Mississippi ;  among  the  Dalles  of  the  St.  Croix  and 


INTO  OTKEB  PEOPLE'S  BUSINESS,         195 

to  the  falls  of  the  Minnehaha.  These  are  the  people 
that  ought  to  go  in  this  way.  "What  a  shame  it  would 
be  to  keep  such  wonderful  glimpses  in  rich  parlors  and 
libraries  only ;  for  people  who  can  go  far  and  wide,  if 
they  choose,  among  the  realities  ! 

Of  them  all,  that  which  gives  most  awe  and  pleasure 
is  the  moon-picture.  The  great  telescopic  moon,  hang- 
ing in  black  space,  with  its  jagged  mountains  catching 
the  beams  of  the  eternal  sun,  and  flinging  down  the 
self-same  actual  points  of  light  that  have  so  rested 
there,  on  the  little  card  held  up  to  it  for  its  portrait 
two  hundred  and  forty  thousand  miles  away. 

The  great  Nothing  that  it  is  in  !  The  upholding  of 
its  separate  round  mass !  The  present  hand  of  God, 
more  truly  recognized  because  no  hold  is  seen !  Foun- 
dationless  !  If  the  old  Eastern  tradition  had  any  truth, 
—  if  the  earth  were  a  flat  plain  and  seemed  to  rest  on 
anything ;  if  its  great  pillars  stood  upon  an  elephant, 
and  the  elephant  upon  a  tortoise,  and  th^  tortoise  on 
something  untraceable  in  depth,  l^t  not  beyond  con- 
ception, —  where  would  be  our  thought  of  the  environ- 
ing spirit  ?     This  wonderful,  awful  jioating  of  every- 


196  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

thing,  from  the  sun-globes  to  the  meanest  atoms,— 
this  utter  separateness,  —  it  is  by  this  we  get  an  in- 
most notion  of  that  rest,  that  reliance,  that  nearness, 
that  strength,  in  which  we  lie ! 

It  comes  into  their  faces,  every  one,  —  more  or  less 
dimly  or  consciously,  —  as  they  look  at  this  moon-pic- 
ture. I  need  not  say  a  syllable,  I  know.  It  will  tell 
it  to  them  for  itself.  The  word  it  speaks  will  bury  it- 
self in  their  souls  ;  a  seed  to  grow  up  into  the  grand- 
est, holiest  knowledge. 

It  is  something  to  minister  such  sacraments  as  these. 

"  It  is  all  very  well,"  Emery  Ann  says,  "  with 
the  decent  mechanic  people.  But  how  will  you  do 
when  the  ragged  boys  and  the  coarse  men  get  wind 
of  it  and  come  along  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  shall  think  when  the  time  comes," 
I  answered.  "And  if  they  are  too  coarse,  I  dare 
say  nothing  will  drive  them  away  sooner  than  polite- 
ness." 

"  There's  something  in  that,"  said  Emery  Ann. 
"  My  sister  Loviny  used  to  tell  her  little  boy,  — '  Don't 
come  into  the  parlor  unless  you  can  be  polite.'     So  one 


INTO  OTHEB  PEOPLE'S  BUSINESS.         197 

da}^  he  stood  in  the  doorway  when  she  had  company 
'  Why  don't  you  come  in,  Horatio,  and  take  off  youi 
cap  ?  *  saj's  Loviny.  '  I  don't  feel  as  if  I  wanted  to  be 
polite,'  says  he,  and  cleared.  It  don't  alwers  take  a 
perleece  officer  to  keep  folks  out  from  where  they  aint 
fit, — not  even,  forzino,  out  of  heaven." 

Mother  says  she's  "  proper  glad"  we  thought  of  it 
Dear  mother  !  What  shall  we  do  when  the  quaint  old 
people  are  all  gone,  and  the  quaint  old  words  are  all 
used  up  ?  They  are  a  part  of  speech  by  themselves  ; 
not  common,  not  ill-bred,  nor  anything  like  modern 
slang  ;  but  full  of  pure  meaning  and  time-flavor.  The 
old  Puritans  sent  ,them  down  to  us,  many  of  them ; 
this,  certainly.  They  were  so  self-contained ;  and 
words  were  so  chastened  in  their  using.  Nobody  was 
ever  extravagantly  glad  ;  nothing  was  ever  excessively 
pleasant;  only  "  properly "  so.  Yet  the  sober  word 
meant  all  that  they  could  say,  as  much  as  our  words 
do ;  and  the  meaning  grew  more  and  more,  as  they 
crowded  all  their  feeling  into  it,  until  the  ver}^  term  of 
moderation  and  restraint  came  to  have  a  most  lip- 
smacking  sound  of  the  superlative. 


198  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

Sometimes  I  think  I  get  more  out  of  other  people 
than  is  fair ;  I  have  grown  so  into  the  way  of  putting 
myself  in  their  places,  and  feeling  just  how  things  must 
seem  to  them.  It  is  almost  like  reading  their  letters, 
or  listening  at  their  doors.  I  wonder  if  it's  old  maids' 
way  ;  and  if  that  is  how  we  get  such  a  character  ;  be- 
cause we  must  needs  borrow  so  much?  I  wonder  if 
it  is  the  essence  of  prying  and  gossiping  ? 

I  think  the  difference  must  be  in  the  point  of  view. 
If  you  stand  outside,  and  peer  and  pick  and  criticise, 

—  if  3^ou  look  for  what  had  better  not  be,  —  then  I'm 
sure  choking  in  the  sea  isn't  a  bit  too  bad  for  such  a 
haunting  and  possessing  ;  but  if  you  go  right  down  into 
their  hearts,  and  feel  their  joys  and  troubles  with  them, 

—  I  think  that  is  even  what  our  Lord  himself  did,  and 
how  he  helped  them,  and  "  bore  "  their  sorrows  and  in- 
iquities, and  gave  them  of  his  peace. 

I  try  to  have  it  so.  For  my  imagination  —  what- 
ever that  is,  and  I  think  it  is  the  power  that  goes  out 
of  us  into  spiritual  places,  gathering  realities  —  loill 
reach  forth  and  lay  hold  of  what  is  not,  altogether,  my 
very  own. 


INTO   OTIIEE  PEOPLE'S  BUSINESS.  19y 

I  g:>  fiere  and  there,  in  this  fashion.  To  Dearwood, 
as  I  was  saying ;  and  lately,  very  much,  just  in  this 
way,  to  Mrs.  Shreve's. 

She  has  had  a  piece  of  good  fortune.  She  has  had 
some  money  left  her.  Money  that  she  never  expected 
or  heard  of.  "  Things  are  never  done  happening,  in 
this  world,"  Emery  Ann  says.  "  Everything  can  wait, 
but  chickens  and  children." 

Late  in  life,  after  many  pinches  and  worries,  it  has 
come  to  her.  Not  an  enormous  fortune  ;  but  that  large 
"enough"  to  her  quiet  wants,  that  sets  her  heart  at 
rest. 

And  it  is  so  pleasant  to  feel  how  it  is  with  her.  And 
she  shows  it  so  simply.     Not  b}^  any  airs  or  pretences, 

—  no,  indeed !  Only  by  breathing  free ;  as  if  some 
band  were  loosened  that  had  drawn  tight  around  her 
life. 

She  makes  half-a-dozen  new  night-gowns  ;  "in  case 
of  sickness,"  she  says,  —  "it  is  good  to  have  a  store," 

—  and  1  know,  with  the  high  price  of  cotton,  she  did 
not  have  more  than  two  new  ones  together,  for  many  a 
year  ;    and  she  sends  b}^  me  to  bu}^  Coventry  ruflling, 


200  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

by  the  piece,  for  the  necks  and  bands.  She  gets  nice, 
new  napkins,  —  I  marked  them  for  her  with  an  old 
English  S  in  indelible  ink,  —  and  she  hires  a  woman 
by  the  day  to  help  her  girl  with  the  washing,  or  when 
there  is  extra  scrubbing  to  do.  She  has  let  Dick  go  to 
a  tailor,  and  the  world  is  thereby  a  shade  brighter  all 
over  to  the  boy.  She  has  a  fire  and  a  large  lamp  in 
the  best  room,  of  evenings,  when  he  comes  home  ;  and 
when  mother  and  I  go  over,  neighboring,  the  whole 
house  looks  as  if  it  were  always  so,  and  could  be  as 
well  as  not.  Nothing  is  very  strange  or  new ;  only 
safe  and  sure  and  hearty.  When  a  thing  breaks,  she 
says  " Never  mind ! "  not  keeping  the  "mind"  all  to 
herself,  with  a  pain,,  like  a  secret  returning  echo.  I 
think  she  can't  help  a  sort  of  satisfaction,  now  and 
again,  in  a  little  loss  or  a  giving  out ;  knowing  that 
the  replacing  is  no  longer  a  taking  from  one  thing  to 
make  good  another. 

The  way  it  happened  was  this. 

I  know  that  if  I  were  putting  together  a  storj^  — 
for  the  sake  of  the  story,  —  which  I  never  meant  to 
do,  and  never  could  have  done  in  all  my  life,  —  the 


INTO  OTHEB  PEOPLE'S  BUSINESS.         201 

way  it  happened  ought  to  have  come  first ;  indeed 
everything  ought  to  have  come  first,  except  the  very 
thing  that  I  was  driving  at.  Not  by  any  means 
with  A,  B,  and  C  regularity  either ;  I  know  better 
than  that,  too  ;  you  must  "  say  it,  skipping  about ;  "  I 
have  not  read  the  new  style  of  novel  and  magazine 
writing  unobservantly.  You  must  dip  first  into  a 
little  bit  of  the  end ;  then  plunge  into  the  middle, 
talking  about  people  and  places  and  things,  as  if 
everybody  had  been  regularly  introduced,  and  then 
gradually,  by  little  dashes  and  allusions,  catchings  up 
and  hitchings  on,  get  the  antecedents  and  the  connec- 
tions together,  with  the  help  of  the  clever  reader,  — 
and  nobody  else  has  any  business  with  modern  litera- 
ture, —  in  a  manner  equally  creditable  to  his  sagacity 
and  your  own  ingenuity. 

But,  as  I  am  not  writing  a  story,  —  only  putting 
down  things  and  thoughts  as  they  come  to  me,  in  a 
very  plain,  small,  every-day  living,  —  I  put  down  first 
what  interests  me  most,  —  dear  Mrs.  Shreve's  long 
breath. 

The  way  it  happened,  then,  was  this  :  — 


202  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

I  was  looking  out  of  my  window  one  day,  when  I 
saw  a  very  queer  little  man  getting  out  of  a  very  queer 
little  chaise,  at  Mrs.  Shreve's  door. 

The  man  was  short  and  thin ;  the  chaise  was  tall 
and  thin  ;  and  the  horse  was  a  roan,  chunky  and  low ; 
so  low  that  he  made  me  think  of  a  little  spotted  dog, 
trained  to  run  between  the  wheels,  and  that  the  real 
horse  must  be  somewhere,  invisibly,  beyond,  or  round 
the  corner. 

The  man  had  wiry  little  legs,  and  a  round  ball  of  a 
head,  and  he  wore  the  roundest  of  brown  felt  hats ; 
and  his  thick,  short  sack-coat,  also  brown,  set  out 
round  his  body  so  as  to  complete  another  ridiculous 
notion  that  came  into  my  head,  that  he  was  like  an 
unfinished  piece  of  knitting-work ;  the  needles  stuck 
into  the  ball  at  one  end,  and  the  piece  of  web  round- 
ing out  between.  And  his  name  was  according  to  my 
fancy,  and  bore  it  out  curiously,  as  I  learned  after^ 
wards.  It  was  Mr.  Knott  Webber,  the  keen  little 
Boston  lawyer. 

A  certain  client  of  his  —  Aaron  Eachfield  —  had 
just  died. 


INTO   OTHEB  PEOPLE'S  BUSINESS.  203 

Some  years  ago,  this  Aarou  Eachfield,  a  master 
mechanic,  came  into  his  office,  for  the  first  time,  iu 
company  with  Richard  Shreve,  whose  widow,  —  as  he 
said  at  this  point  of  the  interview  which  Mrs.  Shreve 
mostly  repeated  to  me,  word  for  word,  here  and  there, 
from  time  to  time  afterward,  quite  in  the  approved 
constructive  style  I  was  just  speaking  of,  and  which  I, 
w^th  the  due  cleverness,  patched  and  pieced  together, 
till  I  have  got  the  whole  incident  very  clearly  and 
prettily  in  my  head,  —  whose  widow,  he  said,  he  be- 
lieved he  had  now  the  pleasure  of  addressing. 

Mr.  Shreve  had  been  in  a  large  way  of  business, 
and  had  gone  into  many  building  speculations.  These 
it  was  that  ruined  him,  as  to  money's  worth, —  finally  ; 
but  meanwhile,  he  had  put  work  and  monc}"  in  others' 
way,  and  had  built  up  many  a  modest  little  fortune, 
although  failing,  at  last,  of  his  own.  I  believe  there 
are  books  somewhere,  on  which  there  will  be  found 
records  that  make  him  a  heav}^  stockholder  in  a  kind 
of  Mutual  Company  whose  dividends  pay  largest  and 
best  after  all  earthly  accounts  are  closed. 

"  I've  brought  you  a  man,  Mr.  Webber,"  said  Mr. 


204  PXTIEKCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

Shreve  to  his  lawyer,  "  who  wants  somebody  to  draw 
up  his  will.  My  friend,  Mr.  Aaron  Eaehfield ;  my 
friend,  Mr.  Knott  Webber.  And  now,  as  I  have  an 
important  appointment  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  I'll 
leave  you  to  get  better  acquainted  without  me." 

And  that  was  the  last  Richard  Shreve  ever  knew  of 
the  business. 

Aaron  Eaehfield  turned  round  to  the  lawyer. 

"  Yes,  sir.  I've  laid  up  a  snug  little  property,  of 
some  thirty  thousand  dollars.  And  that  man,  sir, 
who's  just  gone  out,  is  the  man  that  put  me  in  the  way 
of  it.  I  may  say  it's  his  gift.  For  a  gift  comes  down, 
sir,  through  many  hands  ;  and  in  everj^  one  it's  as  real 
a  giving,  as  though  God  Almighty  weren't  at  one  end, 
and  a  fellow's  own  hard  work  at  the  other.  But  that's 
taking  up  your  time ;  I  beg  your  pardon.  What  I 
want,  is  a  will,  riglit  and  tight ;  disposing  of  this  said 
thirty  thousand  dollars  in  two  equal  halves.  One  to 
my  wife,  Rebecca  Eaehfield,  and  I'm  sorry  to  say  I 
haven't  seen  her  for  as  man}?^  years  as  I've  given  her 
thousands,  and  them  more,  I'm  afraid,  than'll  do  her 
any  real  good.     Then,  provided  I  leave   no  child  or 


INTO   OTHEB  PEOPLE'S  BUSINESS.         205 

child's  child,  —  and  the  onh^  one  there  is  isn't  likely 
to  marry  or  to  outliA'e  me,  poor  thing,  —  the  other 
half  to  Richard  Shreve,  Esquire,  or  his  widow,  or  his 
oldest  child,  whichever  stands  to  represent  him,  if  so 
be,  after  I'm  gone.  And  that  being  the  whole  of  it,  I 
don't  know  as  I  need  to  bother  you  much  longer  now. 
When  it's  done,  I'll  come  and  sign." 

And  the  little  lawyer  having  unravelled  himself  of 
this,  held  out  his  hand,  and  shook  Mrs.  Shreve's 
warmly,  and  told  her  he  was  glad  in  his  soul  to  have 
to  come  and  tell  her  of  it. 

"  For  Aaron  Eachfield  was  a  grand  good  fellow ; 
and  Richard  Shreve,  —  well,  you  know,  ma'am,  what 
he  was  ;  and  it's  good  money  that  comes  through  such 
men's  fingers ;  and  I  wish  you  well  of  it ;  luell  of  it 
ma'am  ;  in  my  soul  I  do  !  " 

After  that,  I  saw  the  rest  of  it ;  the  little  knitting- 
work  man  sticking  his  brown  ball  (apparently)  on  its 
pins  again,  and  rolling  himself  up  as  if  he  had  done 
his  stent  for  that  time,  and  getting  into  his  tall  chaise 
again,  and  rattling  away  with  the  little  roan  horse 
trotting  underneath. 


206  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTIXGS. 

And  so  that  night,  happening  in,  I  saw  that  Mrs. 
Shreve  was  rather  nervous  ;  and,  lighting  her  lamp, 
and  putting  the  globe  on,  she  let  it  slip,  and  broke  it 
into  fifty  pieces  against  the  stove-foot ;  upon  which, 
while  I  picked  up  the  scraps  of  glass,  she  sat  down 
and  burst  out  crying. 

I  knew  she  couldn't  well  spare  the  dollar  it  would 
take  to  bu}^  another;  but  I  was  afraid,  for  her  giving 
wa}'  like  this,  which  wasn't  usual  to  her,  that  the  knit- 
ting-work man  must  have  brought  some  botch  or  other 
to  worry  her ;  and  I  began  to  be  quite  angry  with  him 
in  my  heart,  and  to  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  pull  out 
all  his  stitches. 

And  then,  when  she  got  over  it  a  little,  she  told  me 
not  to  mind ;  what  made  her  cry  was,  that  it  was  no 
kind  of  matter ;  that  she  could  get  as  man}^  lamp- 
shades as  she  liivcd ;  and  that  nobod}^  had  ever  had 
such  a  husband ;  and  that  it  would  be  an  ache  in  her 
heart  all  her  life  that  she'd  never  seen  Aaron  Eachfield, 
to  tell  him  what  she  thought  of  him,  and  to  sa}'  God 
bless  him ! 

And  if  that  wasn't  bea-inninsr  in  the  riaht  modern 


INTO   OTHEB  PEOPLE'S  BUSINESS.         207 

sij\Q  to  tell  a  story,  I  should  like  to  know  what  would 
have  been ! 

So  first  and  last,  between  us,  it's  all  the  same.  If 
any  one  likes  it  better  so,  they  can  begin  at  this  end 
and  read  it  again,  backward.  Anyhow,  there's  a  new 
chamber  firelighted  and  warm  in  my  heart ;  a  new 
place  to  go  into  and  be  glad  in  ;  every  time  I  think  of 
Mrs.  Shreve  and  her  lamp-shades,  and  her  bonnets, 
and  her  table-cloths,  and  her  night-gowns,  and  all  the 
little  things  that  used  to  fret  and  trouble  her,  and 
that  now  she  can  be  so  easy  about. 

And,  as  Emery  Ann  says,  —  We  can  all  wait  our 
turn;  things  are  never  done  happening;  everybody 
can  be  patient  but  children  and  chickens. 


PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS, 


XVIII. 


INTO   THE   MIDNIGHT. 


Weeks  ago,  I  wrote  those  last  words. 

How  can  I  bear  to  put  it  down  here,  —  that  which 
came  after? 

The  pleasant  heart-chambers  are  all  shut  up. 

God  has  called  me  out  —  into  the  darkness.  I 
grope  and  grope,  reaching  after'  my  life  that  is  taken 
away  from  me,  and  set  so  far  onward. 

I  know  that  it  is  the  evening  and  the  morning 
that  are  the  day  ;  I  know  the  morning  is  beyond ;  but 
the  midnight  is  heavy  upon  me. 

O  mother !  my  dear,  dear  little  mother ! 


mrO  THE  DAT-GLEAM.  209 


XIX. 

INTO  THE  DAT-GLEAM. 

Her  empty  chair  is  before  my  eyes. 

The  little  stand  is  there,  and  the  work-basket ;  and 
her  spectacles  are  lying  on  the  window-ledge. 

Nobody  touches  them  but  me,  and  I  place  them 
every  morning  as  she  did.  I  do  not  let  the  dust  lie 
on  them,  but  I  will  never  put  them  away. 

Yet  it  is  not  the  chair,  nor  an}^  place,  that  held  her. 

When  she  was  there,  to  my  sight,  it  was  not  all  of 
her.  It  was  only  the  sign  of  her.  Her  real  presence 
was  in  all  the  room,  —  in  all  the  house.  In  all  the 
world,  lighting  it  up  for  me. 

Is  it  different  now  because  the  sign  is  set  elsewhere 

in  another  chamber,  higher  up?    When  I  was  down 

stairs  and  she  above,  the  house  was  no  less  full  of  her. 

When  I  went  miles  away  my  life  was  no  less  full  of  her. 

I   am   coming  to  think   of   it  so.      I   am   coming, 
14 


210  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS. 

through  days  and  nights  of  pain,  to  the  beginning  of 
the  sun-break.  Not  out  into  darkness,  but  out  into 
the  breadth  and  glory  of  the  many  mansions,  has  the 
Sood  Father  called  my  sou!. 

When  I  think  how  it  has  been  between  us,  —  how 
the  blue  of  the  morning,  and  the  sweetness  of  the 
summer,  and  the  little  pleasantness  of  home,  and  the 
thought  that  from  anywhere  came  to  touch  us  both, 
were  the  things  that  held  us  really  close,  and  that  our 
hearts  met  in,  —  I  know  that  the  bodily  presence  was 
not  much,  —  was  not  our  living.  And  that  our  real 
life  can  not  be  broken. 

I  set  her  place  straight,  and  put  the  little  things 
about,  there  in  the  window,  and  make  up  the  dear 
look  of  the  pleasant  day  we  are  to  have  together  ;  and 
the  same  love  is  in  it  that  was  in  it  then ;  and  so  the 
soul  is  in  it ;  and  so  the  pleasant  day  must  be,  and  is. 

•Does  not  she  know?    How  did  she  know  it  then? 

It  was  not  in  the  table,  nor  the  chair,  nor  the  book, 
nor  the  basket ;  only  that  our  thought  met  in  these,  — 
in  that  which  was  within  them,  rather,  and  behind  the 
signs. 


'INTO   THE  DAT-GLEAM,  211 

It  is  only  that,  —  that  she  has  gone  behind  the  signs. 

Into  the  very  peace  of  the  blue  morning,  into  the 
very  rest  of  the  tender  twilight,  into  the  very  joy  of 
the  new-springing  thought  that  wants  and  waits  not 
words  ;  into  the  continual  promise  and  forelooking  of 
the  pleasant  day  that  is  always  just  begun. 

When  these  things  touch  me,  through  the  types,  she 
is  in  them  with  me,  without  the  types.  Just  as  she 
was  before.  She  has  entered  the  within.  The  with- 
in that  is  also  the  beyond,  and  the  unbound. 

Out,  into  the  wider  life,  —  into  the  spiritual  places. 
Is  this  whither  He  would  lead  me  now,  by  her  dear 
drawing  and  guidance?  Then  ought  I  to  be  glad  ; 
gladder  than  in  any  other  leading  He  has  ever  given. 

Only,  the  pain  and  the  strain  !  The  reaching  forth 
one's  hands,  with  the  clog  of  the  flesh  upon  them,  to 
lay  hold  of  things  in  that  world  the  things  of  which 
may  neither  be  touched  nor  handled ! 

This  blind  walking  in  the  midst  of  glory  !  I  know 
that  it  is  here,  and  close ;  and  to  her  it  is  manifest. 
But  I  am  as  the  beggar  crying  by  the  wayside,  among 
the  crowds  that  looked  upon  the  face  of  the  Lord, — • 


212  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

feeling  only  that  he  is  here,  and  that  the  great  multi- 
tude is  about  him,  —  crying  only  "  Have  mercy  on 
me,  that  I  may  receive  my  sight ! " 

Yet,  when  my  heart  is  warm,  I  know,  as  the  blind 
know,  that  I  am  in  the  sunshine  that  I  cannot 
see. 

I  had  a  dream  of  her. 
■  It  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  work  in  my  hand  ;  large 
work,  —  sewing ;  and  that  I  went  down  the  garden 
with  it  alone.  I  came  to  a  wall  —  a  wall  freshly  built, 
—  that  stopped  me.  I  wondered,  —  and  then  I  remem- 
bered.    *'  The  sepulchre !     In  my  garden,  also,  there 

is  a  new  tomb,  now ! " 

« 

When,  behold,  in  the  seeming  sepulchre,  a  door; 
which,  when  I  opened,  showed  me  a  fair  room,  full  of 
sunshine ;  and  in  the  sunshine,  as  if  she  were  the 
heart  of  it,  she  sat.  And  she  had  work  in  her  hand, 
like  mine ;  only  it  was  finished.  And  she  spoke  in 
the  dear  old  tone,  and  the  light  was  all  around  her, 
and  in  her  look. 

"  Childie !  Come  to  sit  and  work  with  me  ?  That 
is  good.     Sit  here,  where  it  is  warm   and  plerwsa*it; 


INTO   THE  DAY-GLEAM.  213 

sew  your  seam,  while  I  pick  out  the  basting- threads 
from  this  of  mine." 

And  I  never  felt  her  company  so  dear  and  sweet,  in 
all  my  waking  life,  as  I  felt  it  in  that  moment  of  my 
dream. 

Words  woke  me,  that  were  spoken  in  the  spirit.  "  I 
am  the  Door ;  by  Me  ye  shall  go  in  and  out."  And 
the  re?t  of  it  came  after  ;  the  word  of  my  vision. 

Motherdie  !  I  will  bring  my  work  in  my  hand,  and 
sit  with  3'ou  in  the  sunshine.  I  will  patiently  sew  my 
seara  of  life  that  is  not  jet  ended,  while  you  draw  out 
the  earth-threads  from  your  beautiful  finished  garment. 
And  all  the  same,  our  labor  is  one,  as  it  was  before. 

I  am  glad  you  can  draw  out  the  threads,  motherdie ! 
the  threads  of  the  seam  that  I  have  still  to  do  ;  and  I 
am  glad,  and  I  know,  that  you  still  work  on  somehow 
beside  me.  I  am  glad  of  the  sunny  mansion,  and  of 
the  door  that  opens  easih"  and  gently  inward.  Close 
by,  —  out  of  the  garden,  —  out  of  the  nearest  pleas- 
antness of  visible  things ! 

Everybody  thought,  at  first,  that  I  would  go  away 
from  here.     Why,  where  should  I  go?    If  this  were 


2U  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

lonely,  what  would  the  wide  world  be,  where  she  never 
was?  And  if  this  were  her  home,  where  her  spirit 
clung  so  long,  where  else  should  I  find  the  sweet 
haunting  of  her  life  and  love,  that  are  the  only  pres- 
ence, let  the  body  be  laid  down  as  it  may? 

No;  I  shall  stay  here.  If  I  went  away,  I  must 
needs  come  back,  haunting,  too.  And  I  feel  as  if  I 
should  meet,  in  the  spirit,  a  tender  reproach,  —  a  sigh 
of  "  how  could  you?"  through  the  dear,  old,  forsaken 
rooms. 

At  first  I  was  afraid  that  I  should  not  have  Emery 
Ann.  She,  too,  had  made  up  her  mind  for  me,  that  I 
must  needs  go ;  and  her  brother  had  written  to  her, 
again  and  again,  from  away  down  East,  at  Skowhegan, 
that  he  wanted  her  there  to  keep  his  house. 

So  there  came  to  be  so  much  said  and  thought  about 
it  before  she  realized  that  I  would  still  certainly  want 
her  here,  that  it  divided  her  mind.  She  felt,  she  said, 
"  as  if  she  had  actually  moved,  and  the  thing  was  now 
to  come  back  again."  I  wanted  her  to  take  her  free 
choice,  and  I  told  her  to  think  it  over  as  long  as  she  ^ 
liked. 


INTO   THE  DAY-GLEAM.  215 

That  means,  keep  moving.     Why,  I  shall  be  all 

ore  out,  going  back  and  forrard  in  my  mind ;  and 
good  for  nothing  for  either  of  you  by  then  I  stop.  I 
tell  you,  Miss  Patience,  you  don't  know  what  an  awful 
"waggle  a  settled  kind  of  a  mind  gets  into,  when  once 
it  is  upsot !  " 

So  poor  Emery  Ann  laid  awake  nights,  and  came 
down  with  her  eyes  all  dropped  in,  in  the  morning, 
and  brought  in  breakfast  like  an  Affery  Flintwinch 
in  a  dream. 

She  looked  sometimes  as  if  she  wanted  me  to  ques- 
tion her,  to  get  a  decision'- out  of  her  that  she  was 
quite  beyond  producing  for  herself. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  I,  one  morning,  more  as  an  answer 
to  her  own  eyes  than  as  an  inquiry. 

"  Well,"  she  replied ;  as  if  the  forced  decision  were 
coming,  and  glad  too,  —  and  then  suddenly  caught 
herself  back  into  the-  debatable  ground  again.  She 
set  down  the  tray,  and  lifted  up  her  hand,  moving  her 
thumb  to  and  fro,  as  the  children  do  in  the  game  of 
"  Simon." 

*'  Weil,  ma'am,  —  Simon  says  —  Wigwag  !  " 


216  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

And  every  morning  after  that,  for  about  a  week,  she 
would  set  down  the  tray  without  a  word,  and  lift  up 
her  hand,  and  make  the  sign. 

But  at  last  she  came  in  with  a  brighter  face  than 
she  had  worn  since  —  since  the  change  and  shadow 
fell ;  and  when  she  had  emptied  her  hands  of  their 
burden,  she  made  a  great  sweep  in  the  air  and  brought 
her  right  thumb  downward  upon  the  table,  planting  it 
there  as  if  she  stamped  some  solemn  and  irrevocable 
seal. 

*'  Simon  says  — down,  ma'am  !  " 

And  I  believe  it  is  ddKvn,  now,  for  as  long  as  we 
both  shall  live. 

I  asked  her  how  it  had  come  about. 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I've  been  tossed  by  the  winds,  and 
in  jeopardy.  But  the  Lord  has  kept  me  in  one  mind 
now,  —  for  I  just  left  it  all  to  him  when  I  found  I 
couldn't  stay  there  a  minute  myself,  —  for  twenty-four 
hours  together ;  and  so  he's  brought  me  to  land.  I 
can  tell  a  sign  when  it  does  come,  besides  its  being  a 
thankful  deliverance." 


INTO   THE  DAY-GLEAM,  217 

I  believe  nothing  lifts  us  so  far  forward  as  pain  and 
hardness. 

I  do  not  think,  as  I  sometimes  have  thought  and 
been  afraid,  that  they,  in  the  heaven-peace  and  free- 
dom, will  go  on  so  fast  beyond  us  as  to  go  away.  T 
think  that  we  who  stay  and  hear^  are  climbing  by 
rough,  grand  steps  to  as  beautiful  a  height.  And  that 
they  must  see  it  so ;  as  we  see  hard  lives  and  great 
anguishes   here,  and   behold    them  with  a  reverence. 

I  believe  the  earth  life  is  grand;  almost  grander 
than  the  first  heaven  of  rest  it  reaches  to.  I  think 
the  Father's  angels  must  have  looked  with  a  more 
worshipping  awe  on  the  Son  of  Man  in  the  glory  of 
his  suffering,  than  in  the  glory  of  his  power. 

It  can  only  be  that  it  is  one  same  world,  where  one 
same  work  of  love  and  faith  is  done  under  different 
conditions.  And  I  can  think,  somehow,  of  how  it 
may  be,  and  of  things  it  is  like. 

The  man,  for  instance,  grapples  numbers  in  his 
brain,  and  sum  and  relation  are  beautiful  abstract 
truths ;  abstract,  but  real ;  the  more  real ;  and  he 
feels  that  he  gets  hold  of  them  somehow.    The  little 


218  PATIENCE  STBOKG'S  OUTINGS. 

child  slides  colored  balls  on  wires,  and  cannot  go 
beyond  his  sight.  Yet  they  are  both  reaching  into  the 
same  realm,  and  touch,  mentally,  the  same  things. 

We  work  in  the  spiritual  relations  by  signs.  The 
angels  work  in  the  inner  things  themselves.  And 
these  inner  things  are  not  in  one  corner  of  the  uni- 
verse and  their  signs  in  another.  I  believe  it  is  one 
great  Here. 

I  think  of  it  when  I  walk  in  the  streets  of  the  won- 
derful, busy  city.  I  think  of  what  is  there  beside  the 
stones  and  the  buildings.  Of  what  they  stand  for, 
or  else  they  could  not  stand  >»^  all ;  of  the  real  grand- 
ness  and  strength ;  of  the  thought-work  and  living 
energies,  and  of  the  needs  and  loves  out  of  which 
these  things  grow  ;  and  I  think  that  behind  the  things 
which  we  "behold,"  and  of  which,  some  day,  perhaps, 
"there  shall  not  be  one  stone  left  upon  another," 
there  is  something  immortal  which  shall  not  pass 
away  ;  some  word  of  God  ;  and  that,  in  the  midst,  the 
spirits  of  God  are  walking  with  ns  even  now. 

Of  God,  —  or  of  evil;  for  the  kingdoms  may  be 
growing  together,  —  their  very  stones  interlocked  and 


INTO  THE  DAY-GLEAM.  219 

Cemented ;  yet  in  the  unseen,  knowing  each  other  not. 
Divided  by  the  great  gulf  which  is  not  depth  or  dis- 
tance, only  utter  unrelation ;  as  there  are  powers  and 
properties  in  nature  that  coexist,  yet  never  touch  or 
recognize  or  invade  each  other,  because  they  have  no 
common  end  or  tending. 

I  think  of  it  in  the  simplest  things  of  every  day 
and  of  our  doing ;  as  our  tastes  develop  and  our  life 
expresses  itself ;  as  we  make  about  us  the  look  that 
we  love  best ;  that  we  are  building,  so,  the  very  home 
in  the  heavens,  that  is  now,  and  shall  be. 

Perhaps  I  cannot  so  much  as  put  a  flower  in  a  vase, 
or  hang  a  picture  on  the  wall,  or  make  anything  sweet 
and  clean  and  let  the  sunshine  in  upon  it,  without 
putting  what  the  flower  and  the  picture  and  the  sun- 
lighted  purity  mean  into  the  unseen  mansion  that  is 
here,  and  is  waiting. 

It  always  seems  as  if  one  did  more  than  the  mere 
thing.  If  I  move  about  a  little  furniture,  and  make 
some  room  that  I  had  not  before,  the  range  and  spa- 
ciousness are  not  just  exactly  the  feet  that  I  have 
gained,  but  a  grand,  indefinite  opening.     It  is  an  idea 


220  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS, 

of  latitude  th&t  is  as  good  to  me,  and  signifies  as 
much,  ^s  any  breadth  of  emptiness  that  could  be  built 
around  with  walls. 

Children  see  this  poetry  of  things,  —  which  is  their 
spirit,  —  always.  The  high,  broad  steps  or  stairs  they 
always  like  to  play  on  are  more  to  them  than  a  mere 
way  of  getting  up.  The  little  cricket  in  the  corner, 
the  nice  corner  itself,  the  seat  in  the  apple-tree,  — 
these  things  to  the  child  have  life  and  importance, 
because  the  child  does  "always  behold"  the  inward 
of  things.  Growing  older,  we  forget ;  or  greater 
things  displace  these  little  ones ;  we  can  sit  any- 
where ;  3^et  we  do  like  our  corner  still.  Enough 
lingers  with  us  to  keep  the  soul  of  the  home-idea ; 
and  we  go  on  gathering  round  it  the  body  which  fits 
and  sets  forth  the  spirit.  We  are  "building  better 
than  we  know." 

I  think,  —  I  am  sure, — motherdie  !   that  we  have 
built  together.     That  you   are  in   it  with  me,  still ; 
the  home  that  this  is  the  sign  and  the  outshowing  of;  ^ 
the  home  that  is  not  "  very  far  off." 


INTO   THE  MOBNING.  221 


XX. 

INTO    THE    MORNING. 

The  sunshine  among  my  flowers,  to-day,  made  me 
so  glad !  It  came  in  among  them  from  away  through 
the  far  heaven,  and  touched  every  little  stem  and  leaf 
with  a  thread,  a  pulse,  of  the  glory  that  is  also  at 
the  same  moment,  unbroken,  in  the  deep  heart  of  the 
Sun! 

It  tells  so  much.  Everything  is  such  a  showing. 
When  we  begin  to  look  at  it  so,  all  life  is  such  a  divine 
parable.  And  the  things  of  this  world  are  what  we 
cannot  possibly  stop  in ;  but  ways  out ;  every  way, 
into  the  everlasting  life. 

Ways  out !  That  was  what  I  began,  in  my  simple- 
ness,  to  write  about,  not  knowing  how  far  it  would 
take  me,  or  how  much  I  was  meaning  in  the  little 
things  that  I  was  trying  to  say. 

I  found  out  what  my  "  outings"  were,  thi**- tea^hod. 


222  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

by  insight,  or  imagination,  or  sympathy,  or  little 
doings  of  some  sort  of  kindness,  into  life  and  range 
beyond  my  own  little  quietness  and  abiding. 

I  found  so  many  doors  stood  open  ;  that  that  which 
seemed  the  very  stop  and  closure  was  only  a  gate  that 
swung  on  easy,  delicate  hinges,  to  let  me  through  into 
a  wider  place. 

But  I  hardly  knew  how  it  was  all  one,- —  the  nearest 
and  the  farthest.  I  hardly  thought  what  narrowing  of 
loss  and  pain  it  would  be  that  should  come  and  shut  me 
in  for  a  season,  only  to  broaden  out  —  as  it  is  broad- 
ening —  into  glimpses  of  that  life  our  living  all  takes 
hold  of,  and  all  our  loving  is  projected  into ;  of  that 
kingdom,  the  gates  of  which  are  never  shut  at  all 
by  day ;  and,  as  to  the  night-time,  there  is  no  night 
there ! 

This  is  the  beautiful  Easter-time. 

Yesterday  there  were  flowers  in  the  church ;  sweet 
spring  flowers,  white  and  tender,  like  new-born  hopes ; 
and  bright,  fresh,  living  green. 

To-day,  motherdie,  there  are  flowers  in  your  win- 


INTO   THE  3I0BNma,  225 

dow,  —  Easter  flowers  ;  white  and  purple  crocuses  and 
snowdrops.  You  love  the  crocus,  mother !  You  used 
to  say  it  was  "  such  a  comforting  little  flower ;  it  came 
before  you  expected  it."  So  I  put  them  there  to-day  ; 
and  the  comfort  looks  out  at  me  from  their  delicate 
faces. 

The  house  is  pleasant,  mother ! 

The  winter  is  gone  ;  and  in  the  winter-time  I  found 
new  ways  of  making  pleasantness,  —  for  you  and  me  ! 
For  you  are  in  it  all,  and  it  is  for  your  sake.  I  learn 
so  the  deep  sweetness  Christ  meant  for  us,  when  he 
vade  us  do  for  his  sake ! 

We  are  not  lonely  here.  You  never  were  lonely; 
and  I  would  not  let  any  dreariness  come  down  about 
your  home.' 

When  Emery  Ann  made  up  her  mind  —  her  good, 
kind,  faithful  mind  — to  stay  by  me,  —by  us,  mother  1 
she  had  a  hard  indecision  to  win  through. 

"  For  you  see,"  she  said,  "  the  main  thing  is,  that 
now  Matilda  is  going  to  be  married,  ma  was  talkin' 
some  of  breakin'  up  and  going  to  Penuel's  to  live. 
And  she  and  little  Rhodory  would  kind  o'  want  some- 


224  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

body  along  with  'em  this  winter,  because  Penuel  thijiks 
of  going  in." 

<'In?     Where?"  I  asked  her. 

"Camp.  Lumbering.  They  wouldn't  hear  from 
him,  maybe,  for  six  months;  and  then,  there'd  be  no 
tellin'  what  first.  It's  a  precious  anxious  time  in  the 
spring,  you  may  believe,  amongst  the  lumbermen's 
folks,  up  and  down  the  Kennebec.  When  the  river 
comes  tearin'  and  ragin'  by  their  doors  and  windows, 
day  long  and  night  long,  straight  from  where  the  boys 
are,  as  if  it  did  bring  news ;  and  they  can  think  of 
nothing  else.  When  they  know  the  big  rafts  are 
making,  and  the  log-drivin'  beginnin',  and  the  fresh- 
ets, and  the  jams ;  and  them  that  comes  home  safe'U 
be  most  sure  to  bring  some  news  of  trouble  for  some- 
body, out  of  the  six  months'  winter,  and  the  silence, 
and  the  danger.  I  did  think  I'd  ought  to  be  with 
her." 

It  was  the  same  love,  motherdie  !     Yours  and  mine. 
What  could  I  say,  then? 

I  feel  so  tender  for  ever3^bod3^'3  mother  now ;    and 
for  all  women  who  are  beginning  to  grow  old. 


INTO   THE  MOBNING.  225 

That  is  what  mother,  and  daughter,  and  sisterhood, 
and  all,  are  given  for.  Little  bits  of  what  holds  all 
together.  The  heart-work  a'nd  the  heart-fife  of  the 
world.  So  that  all  motherliness  is  our  mother's,  and 
all  child's  love  and  brother's  love,  or  even  what  might 
be,  is  ours.  As  it  was  His  who  said,  "  Of  these  who 
do  the  Father's  will,  each  is  mine,  in  every  tie  ;  each 
is  my  brother,  and  sister,  and  mother." 

I  saw  it  the  other  day  —  I  w^anted  to  come 
home  and  tell  you  —  in  a  plain,  common  man ;  this 
beautiful  recognition;  and  it  warmed  my  heart  for 
m^ny  days. 

I  was  coming  out  in  the  car.  The  conductor  was  a 
young,  bluff,  fresh-faced  fellow ;  and  among  the  pas- 
sengers was  a  tidy,  comfortable  old  Scotchwoman.  She 
"  wanted  to  stop  at  Mrs.  M'llvery's  ;  a  little,  low, 
brown  house  with  a  lattice- work  porchway,  and  steps 
through  it  up  to  the  door.  Did  he  know?  Just  past  • 
Grover's  Corner." 

''All  right,  mother!"  says  the  young  conductor. 
That  touched  me  to  begin  with,  and  made  me 
watch. 

15 


226  PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS, 

By  and  b3^,  the  woman  and  I,  and  a  little  boy  who 
jumped  on  to  the  platfoi'm,  and  called  the  conductoi 
*'  George,"  with  a  great  air  of  pride  in  the  familiarity, 
were  the  only  people  left.  And  then  it  came  out  that 
she  had  but  ten  cents'  change  to  pay  her  fare,  which 
should  be  twelve. 

*'  I've  got,"  she  said,  looking  in  the  young  man's 
honest  blue  eyes,  and  putting  her  hand  toward  the 
bosom  of  her  gown,  *'  a  bill ;  it's  twenty  dollars  ;  but 
I  took  ten  cents  for  my  fare,  for  that  was  all  Susannah 
said  it  would  be." 

"  Never  mind,  mother,"  says  George,  again.  "  All 
right."     And  took  the  ten  cents. 

"  I  believe,"  sajs  the  Scotchwoman,  "  you  must  be 
from  the  old  country  yourself." 

"  No,  I'm  a  Yankee.  We  aint  all  lean  kine, 
mother ! " 

"What  did  you  call  her  'mother'  for,  George?" 
whispered  the  bo}^,  as  his  friend  in  authorit}^  pulled 
the  strap,  and  chivalrously  helped  the  old  ladv  down 
before  the  latticed  porchway,  and  then  sprang  on 
again  while  the  car  started.     ^^  She  isn't  your  mother." 


INTO   THE  MOENna.  227 

''  She's  somebody's  mother,  "  said  George.  "And 
I'm  somebody's  sou.  It's  all  the  same.  The  world's 
all  fathers  and  mothers  aud  children.    Don't  you  see?" 

It  was  beautiful  that  lie  saw ;  and  it  did  me  days' 
good ;  and  in  my  heart  I  turned  with  it  to  you,  as  I 
do  with  everything. 

So  I  said  to  Emery  Ann,  "  Why  not  ask  the  mother 
here  to  spend  the  winter  with  you?  She  and  Rhodory 
can  have  the  little  kitchen  bedroom,  and  you  can  come 
upstairs." 

I  felt  as  if  I  could  do  for  you,  dear,  if  I  onl}^  did  for 
"  somebod^^'s  mother." 

And  old  Mrs.  Breckenshaw  and  the  little  girl  are 
here  ;  and  the  house  has  been  pleasant  all  winter  with 
what  ought  to  be  in  a  home.  It  has  been  motherly 
and  daughterly,  here,  again,  for  your  sake. 

Is  that  taking  from  the  Lord  in  anything? 

"When  their  sakes  are  his  sake,  and  all  the  mothers 
and  sisters  are  his  ?  — 

See  how  I  write  to  you,  and  tell  and  ask,  as  if,  some- 
how, the  very  words  were  to  go ! 


228  PATIENCE  STBONG'S  OUTINGS. 

My  "outings"  are  all  toward  you. 

Why  not  ?  I  think  that  all  providings  for  this  life 
show  the  providings  for  the  unseen.  Did  men  piece 
out  God's  work  with  their  cunning  device  of  letters 
and  messengers,  inventing  something  new  under  the 
sun,  the  pattern  of  which  was  not  in  all  the  heavens? 
Or  did  He  put  it  carefully  among  the  possibilities  and- 
intents  and  the  things  to  be,  as  He  did  the  oak-seed 
and  the  mustard-seed? 

I  was  thinking  of  it  so  the  other  day,  when  word 
had  just  come  again  from  Eliphalet  and  Gertrude. 
Of  the  wonderful  thing  it  is  that  there  should  have 
been  a  thought  and  a  way  put  by,  against  the  need 
of  far-separated  people  to  communicate  and  understand 
upon  the  earth ;  of  the  strange,  possible  signs  that 
men  were  sure  to  find  and  put  together  as  they 
were  to  sj^eak ;  and  of  the  great  S3'stcm  that  grows 
out  of  them  ;  of  how  the  whole  world  is  busy  send- 
ing, carrying,  and  rcQeiving,  and  the  verj^  air  is 
alive  with  the  rush  of  its  written  messages,  to  and 
fro. 

How  it  was  truly  meant  and  a  part  of  God's  plaji 


mro  THE  MOBNma.  229 

and  supplement  for  us  ;  as  truly  so,  as  that  wfe  should 
walk  about  or  speak  to  each  other.  And  everj^thing 
being  but  a  showing  and  a  parable,  it  came  to  me  so 
surely  that  He  will  take  care  of  our  hearts,  and  of  the 
spiritual  distances ;  and  by  his  dear  providing  mes- 
sages do  go  to  and  fro  ;  that  the  heavenly  air  is  full  of 
loving  and  helpful  and  remembering  words  ;  and  that 
each  soul  may  get  some  and  may  send  some  every 
day.  "  That  which  is  spoken  in  the  ear  in  closets  is 
heard  upon  the  housetops."  Out  of  God's  mails  no 
letter  is  lost. 

That  is  what  I  think  about  what  they  call  "spirit- 
ualism "  in  these  days.  That  it  only  cumbers  itself. 
That  the  thougJit  is  so  real  and  so  sure, —  that  each 
soul  has  its  own  so  certain  and  direct  communing,  — 
that  this  dealing  in  signs  and  second-hand  is  as  if,  in 
a  land  and  a  time  when  everybod}^  knows  or  may 
know  how  to  write  his  own  letters,  the  public  scriveners 
should  set  up  their  stands,  as  they  did  in  the  old,  un- 
taught places  and  generations.  I  am  afraid  men  may 
ask  for  signs  and  cling  to  tJiem,  and  be  satisfied ;  not 
seeing  the  miracle;  not  perceiving  the  inner  splendor, 


230  PATIENCE  STBONG'8  OUTINGS, 

—  the  real  spirit-working  ;  the  kingdom  of  God  coming 
nigh,  and  already  at  the  doors. 

I  wish  I  could  put  into  words  some  inward  percep- 
tion of  this  life  in  which  we  live.  This  that  we  do 
touch,  and  breathe,  and  see ;  onl}^  as  with  our  souls. 
But  they  are  the  "things  in  heaven  above"  that  we 
may  make  no  gi-aven  image  of.  They  are  only  spirit 
ually  discerned. 

I  find  a  word  in  the  New  Testament,  —  a  word,  in 
deed,  of  the  New  Testament  has  found  me,  newly, — 
a  word  burning  with  its  own  light,  and  shedding  its 
blaze  over  all  the  gospel,  from  every  sentence  in  which 
it  is  put.  A  word,  the  letter  of  which  is  radiantly  one 
with  its  spirit ;  and  taken  simply  in  its  letter  trans- 
lates to  as  perfect  an  image  as  things  can  give,  the 
deep,  unspeakable  truth. 

The  word  is  "  glory." 

A  shining  Presence. 

A  lightening  forth  of  that  which  is  alwaj^s  here ; 
the  "  coming"  of  which  is  as  the  flash  "  from  the  one 
part  to  the  other  part  under  heaven.".  The  electric 
fact  abides ;    so  does  the   spiritual.     It  envelopes  us 


INTO   THE  MOBNma.  231 

always.  When  the  nne,  subtle  conditions  are  met, 
then,  all  at  once,  heaven  and  earth  are  full  of  its 
brightness.  The  beginning  of  miracles  done  in  Cana 
of  Galilee  "manifested  it  forth;"  and  every  act  and 
word  of  the  Son  of  Man  reveals  it,  to  that  appearing 
of  Him  which  is  and  shall  be  "in  the  glory  of  the 
Father  and  with  his  ang-els." 

"  Said  I  not,"   he  asks,   "  if  ye  would  believe,  ye 
should  see  the  glory  of  God?"     Not  sign,  or  wonder, 
or  stroke  of  power  ;  but  disclosing  ;  outshining  of  that 
which  filleth  and  worketh  in  all ;  the  living  nearness ; 
the  heaven  in  which,  and  not  up  to  it  from  afar,  we 
pray  as  he  has  taught  us. 
'  That  is  what "  glory  "  says  to  me  all  through  the  holy 
pages  ;  that  is  the  key  it  is  for  me  to  the  great  invisi- 
ble ;  making  it  shine  out  of  darkness  with  every  word 
of  truth  and  every  teaching  of  life ;    from  the  prayer 
that,  holding  not  a  word   too   much   or   unavailing, 
begins  with  no  mere  ceremony  of  address,  but  with 
a  sentence  put  into  our  lips  to  make  us  feel  all  heaven 
about  us,  and  ourselves  face  to  face  with  the  Father  in 
his  holy  place,  beseeching  for  his  kingdoms  of  outer 


232  JPATIENCE  STItONG'8  OUTINGS. 

and  inmost  to  be  both  male  one,  — to  the  hope  of  the 
city  that  shall  have  no  need  of  the  sun,  because  the 
glory  of  God  shall  lighten  it. 

The  Easter  flowers  are  in  the  window ;  and  the 
Easter  joy  is  in  my  heart. 

I  shall  not  always  be  blind ;  I  feel  what  touches 
me. 

Even  the  Son  of  Man  who  came  down  from  heaven 
and  who  was  in  heaven,  bore  also  the  conditions  of  the 
flesh.  Even  after  his  resurrection  he  had  not  fully 
"  ascended."  He  touched  that  realm  as  we  touch  it ; 
it  was  close  and  warm  about  him ;  he  knew  that  at 
any  moment  he  might  ask  of  the  Father  and  have 
twelve  legions  of  angels  ;  yet  only  now  and  then  thei^ 
"appeared"  out  of  the  glory,  strengthening  him  visi- 
bly ;  or  "  out  of  the  excellent  glory"  came  the  loving, 
audible  voice  of  God. 

Can  we  not  wait  as  he  waited? 

Oh,  I  believe  that  there  is  no  aimy ;  that  no  love, 
no  life,  goes  ever  from  us ;  it  goes  as  He  went,  that  it 
may  come  again,  deeper  and  closer  and  surer ;  and  be 
with  us  always,  even  to  the  end  of  the  world. 


INTO   THE  MOBNING.        .  233 

"  Out  of  the  body,  to  God."  That  shall  bo  the  last 
outgoing  ;  the  everlasting  entering  in. 

That  is  what  we  wait  for,  —  the  adoption ;  the 
redemption  of  our  body  ;  the  full  manifestation  of  the 
sons  of  God. 

That  is  what  shall  certainly  come  in  my  turn,  even 
to  me  also :  the  outgoing  of  the  morning. ;  the  instant 
flowering  of  this  life  into  the  larger ;  the  new  birth- 
da}^  ;  and  as  we  found  each  other  here,  when  this  life 
was  to  be  for  us,  so  surely  your  face  waiting  for  me 
there,  —  ^ 

Motherdie . 


/■liitne^ 


Fatience 


s.    ..^■.    D 


Strong-*  s 


outirx'~:s 


APR  I  -■  2304 


M81837 


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